


Genesis

by Spikedluv



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, First Time, Incomplete, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:36:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos decides to stick around Seacouver for a while and takes a teaching position at Seacouver University.  He expects Duncan MacLeod to continue to drive him nuts and be a pain in his ass; what he doesn't expect is the pre-Immortal young woman that walks into his classroom and disrupts his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place post-series Highlander and post-season 6 BtVS.
> 
> Written: Sometime, 2003

Prologue

Methos walked into the empty classroom and set his well-worn briefcase and a steaming cup of coffee on the desk beside the podium. The classroom was painted an off-white color, the name of which probably had very little to do with the actual color, and the trim stained a deep mahogany. It was small, containing only about twenty seats. A chalkboard ran nearly the entire length of the front of the room, behind where he now stood, with several large windows, almost floor to ceiling, gracing the outer wall to his left. The rear wall was empty, and a bulletin board along the wall beside the door to his right held a map of the ancient world, circa 5000 BC. Which was even before his time, he mused.

He removed his long black trench coat and hung it on the coatrack that stood in the corner, between the door and the chalkboard. He thought for a moment, and then moved the coat rack to the other end of the chalkboard and further away from the door, where he could reach it more safely should anyone be stupid enough to issue a challenge here in the classroom. He made sure that he could easily draw his sword, and then turned back to the desk. He unsnapped the closure holding the battered briefcase shut and pulled out his notes for his first class of the semester.

It was September 3, 2002, the first day of classes marking the beginning of the fall term at Seacouver University. Methos was once again ensconced in Seacouver, home of one Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, having accepted a position as an adjunct professor with the University in their Ancient Studies Department, which included the areas of ancient history, ancient languages, and ancient religion. He was teaching two full-time classes this semester, Introduction to Ancient Languages: Their Origin, Development, and Decline, and History of Ancient Greece.

When MacLeod had heard that, he’d nearly laughed his ass off, Methos thought irritably, with some half-mumbled comment about one ancient knowing another. Truth be told, he wasn’t irritated at Mac. Not really. Well, maybe a little. But he was more irritated because he’d agreed to teach a class that started at nine o’clock in the morning, two mornings a week, a time when all sane Immortals should still be abed. At least his other class was an afternoon seminar.

For the past three and a half years, because of the whole mess with Richie and Arhiman, and then with O’Roarke, Methos had made it a point to check up on MacLeod more frequently, whether the other man was living in Paris, Seacouver, or god forbid, spending time with Rachel in the cold and damp hills of Glenfinnan. Mac needed to know that he still had friends, and Methos needed to assure himself that the Highlander was still alive and well. Though he could sense through their link that the younger Immortal still lived, he felt better seeing it with his own eyes.

Without telling Mac, Methos had decided to spend some additional time in Seacouver with the stubborn Scot. He put feelers out and soon after, Seacouver University had contacted him, or rather, had contacted Dr. Adam Pierson, with a job offer. Methos had moved, lock, stock, and barrel, to Seacouver, although that really wasn’t saying much, since in his current persona, that of Adam Pierson, graduate student, he didn’t own that many possessions, and most of those were books.

With the help of Joe Dawson, Watcher and friend, Methos had rented an apartment near the University campus. He boxed up his belongings and had them shipped to Joe at his bar where he could pick them up when he arrived in Seacouver. His apartment was in walking distance of the University and downtown. Within a couple of blocks of his apartment were several great restaurants and the best coffee house he’d found outside of Paris.

He sat at the desk and flipped through his notes as he picked up the cup of coffee and took a deep breath of the aromatic brew. He sipped the dark, smooth, full-bodied blend of Vienna, Italian, and French roasts, hoping it would be enough to keep him awake through class. He turned his head to look out the window, and let his mind drift back to the day he’d returned to Seacouver.

Immediately upon arriving, on a rare sunny day in August, Methos had dropped by MacLeod’s loft. Mac hadn’t been there, but Methos had let himself in and made himself comfortable on the other man’s couch, a bottle of Guinness Stout in one hand and ‘The History of Venice’ by John Julius Norwich, which he found lying on the coffee table, in the other. He was nearly asleep when the buzz of another Immortal presence brought him fully awake.

It felt like Mac, but he left the book lying open on his chest and picked up his sword anyway, just in case, though he didn’t bother to abandon his boneless sprawl on the couch. Methos watched the elevator rise, and saw the top of the Highlander’s dark head, his dark eyes, and then the golden skin of his normally handsome, currently scowling, face. The man was absolutely beautiful...even scowling, Methos thought.

The elevator ground to a halt and MacLeod lifted the gate and stood looking at Methos, his expression turning from a scowl to one of mild surprise. “You’re early,” MacLeod said with a raised eyebrow, as he exited the elevator.

“Early for what?” Methos asked, as he lay his sword back down on the floor and slid the blade beneath the couch, the hilt within easy reach. The sound of the other man’s voice slid over him like honey, dark and sweet, and Methos felt his body tingle in response.

“My quarterly check-up,” Mac replied with a touch of sarcasm, slipping out of his long leather coat and drawing the sword out of its hidden sheath before hanging it up. He carried the sword over to the couch and laid it across the coffee table. “Staying long?” he asked as he stood before Methos and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

He sounded hopeful, but Methos couldn’t tell if he was hoping he *would* stay, or that he wouldn’t. “Just until my apartment is furnished,” Methos drawled, casually setting aside the book he’d been reading.

“Do you mind?” he asked, taking a sip of the now warm beer and looking up at Mac through lowered lashes. This might have been a mistake, Methos thought. Spending more than a couple of weeks with the Highlander was going to be torture. Pure, delightful torture.

MacLeod was silent for a moment, and Methos had to fight to keep the grin off of his lips. “Apartment?” the other man finally asked.

“Yeah,” Methos responded equably, trying to keep his glee at Mac’s reaction out of his voice. “So, do you mind? It should just be a couple of days.” Methos rearranged himself on the couch, letting his legs fall apart. His jeans were really getting a bit cramped, thank you very much, Highlander.

“Uh, no,” the Scot didn’t look so much like the noble Highland warrior now, Methos thought, as the other man furrowed his brow in concentration, “of course not. You know you’re always welcome here. What apartment?”

“The apartment I’m going to live in, of course,” Methos replied, as if the Scot were daft for asking. “You look like you could use a beer. There’s some in the fridge,” Methos offered, with a regal inclination of his head.

MacLeod responded right on cue. He took a deep breath, “I know there’s beer in the fridge, it’s my...,” he stopped and shook his head. They’d had this conversation before, and Methos nearly laughed aloud at him, but only allowed his mirth to show in his eyes. Methos tilted his head back and watched Mac stride over to the kitchen and liberate a beer from the fridge.

“I’ll take another, if you don’t mind,” Methos’ lips twitched at the Highlander’s sigh of exasperation. He really was too easy.

MacLeod joined Methos on the couch, two bottles in his hands. “Not until you tell me about your apartment,” he said, and took a long, fortifying draw on one of the bottles.

“It’s in a really great location,” Methos began, intentionally misunderstanding MacLeod’s request.

“Methos,” Mac ground out. Methos couldn’t hold back the grin any longer. It just felt so good to be with the dark Scot, and he allowed himself a moment to just look at him. He was letting the hair he’d chopped off after Richie’s death grow out; it now fell below his shoulders and was pulled back in a clasp. He was wearing a deep plum-colored button-up shirt with short sleeves tucked into a pair of natural-colored linen slacks with a brown leather belt, tan socks, and brown leather loafers with pennies in the slots. The first two buttons of the shirt were undone, leaving his throat and the top of his chest exposed.

He was leaning back against the couch in a pose that looked relaxed, but Methos could feel the tension hidden in the casual posture. Methos drank in the sight of the golden-skinned warrior and admitted to himself how bloody glad he was to be here. Although, he *did* have to restrain himself from reaching out to see whether the shirt, which Methos would swear was silk, was softer than the bronze skin of Mac’s throat and upper chest.

“I’m teaching a couple of classes at the University this semester. Didn’t I tell you?” Methos asked innocently, the attempt ruined by the grin still splitting his face.

“No,” Mac replied dryly, holding out the cold beer, “must have slipped your mind.”

“Must have,” Methos said, accepting the beer with a genuine smile. “Thanks,” he saluted the younger Immortal and took a draught of the cold liquid. They talked about what they’d been up to since last seeing each other, and then argued over the merits of the oligarchy in Venice while eating a cold supper that Mac pulled from the refrigerator.

“And I suppose you were there?” MacLeod scoffed. Methos just stared back at him with wide, innocent hazel eyes, as if to say, ‘where else would I be?’. Mac rolled his eyes and ended the discussion.

That night they went to the bar to visit Joe, and the next day Methos took Mac to see his apartment, which was actually the first time he saw it, too. They stepped into a small entry with a hall closet. The entry opened up into a living room, brightly lit by a bank of windows along the outer wall. To the left was a kitchen, to the right, the bedroom and bathroom. The apartment was small, but it was all he needed. And there was plenty of wall space for bookshelves, he noted.

With Mac’s help, the empty apartment was professionally cleaned and furnished within three days, and Methos moved in. Over the weeks before classes started, Methos set up a schedule. He spent the mornings preparing his syllabi and class notes, several afternoons sparring with Mac at the dojo, other afternoons unpacking his meager belongings, and most evenings with Mac and Joe at the bar.

On several occasions, Mac had cooked dinner for them, and for two weekends in a row had dragged him to estate sales where he hoped to find some obscure items a client was looking for. Methos had complained bitterly at the early start Mac required, before acquiescing none-too-gracefully, and then immersing himself in old books and manuscripts he found.

Now that classes were starting, he and Mac had altered their sparring sessions to accommodate his afternoon seminar and office hours. Methos heard the telltale shuffle and muffled voices as students began the forced march through the lecture hall to their classrooms. He relaxed back in his chair as he watched the students slowly and tiredly, he noted with deep satisfaction, enter the room and take their seats.

He ignored the students who were staring at him, trying to figure out whether he was going to be a push-over or a hard-ass. He had traded his usual attire of ragged jeans and holey sweater for a pair of brand new black jeans and a sage-green Henley with the sleeves pushed up to reveal his nicely toned forearms. He still wore his comfortably worn-in hiking boots, though.

The muted hum of a pre-Immortal reached his senses, and Methos slowly dipped his head to look at the straggling students entering the classroom through half-lidded eyes. The buzz got stronger, until a slight redhead with green eyes entered the classroom. She walked up to the desk and gave him a small, tentative smile before handing him a pink slip of paper.

Methos managed to smile back, and watched her glance around the nearly full classroom before taking one of the empty seats in the front row. He pretended to survey the room as he watched her pull out a notebook, a pen, and a highlighter. He glanced down at the late registration notice he held in his hand. Willow Rosenburg. ‘Fuck!’ he thought. Just what he bloody needed.

Chapter One

“Good morning,” Methos said from his seat when the clock read exactly 9:00am. “Welcome to your introduction to ancient languages. My name is Dr. Adam Pierson, and you may call me Dr. Pierson. Over the next thirteen weeks,” he casually tapped his fingers on the desktop, “we’ll be discussing the origin, growth, development, evolution, and eventual decline of ancient languages. But before we do, I’d like to do a roll call so that I can begin to learn your names. We’ve a small class, so it shouldn’t be too difficult,” he smiled charmingly at the students, and stood, moving to the podium.

“When I call your name, please raise your hand so I can find you, and then tell me what class you’re in and your major, if you’ve chosen one.” He laid the class list on the podium, leaned on his forearms, and began reading off names, ending with the last student to join his class, Willow Rosenburg.

“Uh, junior,” the redhead blushed as she hesitated over the answer. “Computer Programming major, with minors in Ancient Languages and Ancient History,” she practically whispered. Methos could sense her discomfort, and decided to take a look at her file. He didn’t want to get involved with the girl any more than he had to, but it always paid to be prepared. And knowledge was a weapon.

“Alright,” he said aloud, as he moved around the podium and leaned his bum against the desk, his arms at his sides, fingers curled around the edge, “who can tell me a little bit about the origin of written language?” The redhead’s arm jerked as if she wanted to raise it, but she kept it glued to her side and stared at her notebook. He could almost *feel* her mentally urging one of the other students to reply. “Anyone? Take a guess,” he let his eyes roam the classroom as he leaned forward a bit. “Miss Rosenburg,” he called her name softly, and watched her jump, “how about you?”

She lifted her head and looked straight at him. “Um, okay,” she swallowed hard. “Many ancient societies believed that written language was of divine origination and created myths to explain...”

~*~*~*~

Methos spent the first class discussing the origin of writing, tossing out questions that would hopefully intrigue the students to find the answers, and positing theories that would be proven or disproved, if they could be at all, during the course of the semester. When class was nearly over, he handed out the syllabus he had prepared, and assigned the homework for their next class.

“Oh, one last thing,” he said as the students began to pack their notebooks away. “There will be a ten-minute quiz every morning, covering the topics we discussed in the previous class. Thursday’s quiz will cover today’s discussion. The quizzes will count as one quarter of your grade, as will class discussion, the assigned homework, and the final. Dismissed!” he said with a smile, as the students all groaned, except for Miss Rosenburg, who almost looked excited at the prospect of a quiz.

After the students had all filed out, one or two stopping by his desk to ask a question about the class, or the required text, or the syllabus, he packed his notes into the briefcase, threw out the remainder of the now-cold coffee, and exited the classroom. He had to go to his office, where he would hold office hours until one o’clock. But first he needed to stop in the registrar’s office.

Methos ended up visiting the registrar’s and the admissions offices. Turned out Willow Rosenburg was a transfer student. She had attended the University of California in Sunnydale, but had failed to take her exams at the end of the spring semester of her junior year. Most of her class credits had transferred, but not enough to allow her to start the year as a senior.

No wonder she’d hesitated, he thought. She probably felt like a senior. He briefly wondered what had kept her from taking her exams, and then shook his head. It was none of his concern. He knew all he needed to know about the young woman. In thirteen weeks, he’d probably never see her again. Until then, it looked like he’d be seeing her three times a week, as she had also late registered into his History of Ancient Greece seminar.

~*~*~*~

Willow left the classroom and headed directly to the University Bookshop to purchase the textbooks and workbooks she needed for her classes. She knew she was lucky to be here at all, but late registration was a pain. Luckily, it hadn’t been too late to get into the classes she wanted. After dropping the bags off at the car, a 2000 Ford Explorer with heavily tinted windows, she decided to walk around the campus. She hadn’t had much chance to explore the place where she would be spending most of the next year, or five, and since the day was sunny without a hint of the nearly constant damp drizzle she’d been warned about, she figured that now was the perfect time.

She locked her book bag in the SUV and, taking just her keys, ID, and some cash, set off to explore. The campus was sprawling, old architecture sitting beside new, and plenty of trees, and grass, and benches for students to sit and enjoy the weather or study. It sort of reminded her of UC Sunnydale and she had to swallow hard to keep the tears back. She hadn’t been back to Sunnydale since May. Since Tara had been killed and she’d tried to end the world.

Nor had she spoken to any of her friends since Giles had taken her to England to study with the coven of witches he had met there; women who helped her learn about and control her powers. Power that resided inside her, that she had taken and couldn’t give back. She lived with the coven for the first month, participating in meditation and cleansing rituals, and learning about the scope of magic in the world, the Earth, and the extent of her own powers.

She spent the next two months living with Giles, driving out to the coven every morning for structured learning sessions with different members of the coven, and spending the afternoons outside, weather permitting, in the unstructured classroom of nature. Eventually, Willow grew homesick, though at the same time, heartsick and afraid to return home. To friends she had betrayed, hurt, nearly killed.

Miss Hartness, the head priestess of the coven in Westbury, England, had contacted her counterpart, Mrs. Kendricks, high priestess of a coven located here in Seacouver, and explained Willow’s situation to her. Mrs. Kendricks put the matter before the other members of the coven, and they agreed to take over Willow’s training.

Giles brought Willow back to the United States and settled her in Seacouver. She was close enough to home to be able to visit on occasion, but not near enough to the Hellmouth for it to adversely affect her. They hoped. Giles had used contacts he’d made through the Council to pull strings, and Willow was admitted to Seacouver University as a transfer student. A junior.

That rankled, but she knew it was her own fault that she hadn’t been able to complete her studies. Just as well, she told herself, as she sat on one of the benches and let the sun shine on her face, watching the other students walk past, Seacouver U had a much better Ancient Languages program than UC Sunnydale did, even though none of her friends were here.

And if she could eventually help Giles translate impending prophecies and demonology texts written in Sumerian, or some other ancient language, it would be worth it. Or so she tried to tell herself. At least she wasn’t alone, even though she was too much of a coward to visit Buffy and Xander yet.

Willow’s stomach growled and she checked her watch. Only eleven-thirty, but she’d been too nervous to eat breakfast before leaving for school. School was nothing new to her, and was normally a fun and exciting experience, but after keeping to herself for months, except for lessons with the Wiccans, she had been anxious.

She returned to the SUV and checked out the syllabus for one of the two classes she had on Wednesday, Advanced Psychology, and then placed the syllabus and the text in her book bag. She’d go to the student union and grab a quick bite to eat, and then go to the library. Even though the professor hadn’t provided a syllabus yet, Willow decided to take the History of Ancient Greece text with her also.

She looked at her class schedule, and shook her head. Great, Dr. Pierson taught that class, too. He seemed to know what he was talking about, but she got the feeling that he didn’t like her very much. He hadn’t said or done anything overt; it was just...intuition.

~*~*~*~

Methos clipped the pink late registration slip to the class list and stuck both in a folder that he placed in his briefcase. He pulled over a pad of paper and picked up a pen to write out the quiz for Thursday, then leaned back in his chair and thought about the girl he’d met this morning. He didn’t know why he was even letting it concern him.

She was only a pre-Immortal, and if she lived a long and healthy life, dying in her sleep of old age, she’d never have to worry about becoming an Immortal, but there was just...something about her. He *knew* he shouldn’t have come to Seacouver. Damned MacLeod. It was all his fault. Somehow.

Methos shook his head to clear it and quickly jotted down ten short-answer questions for the quiz on Thursday, and then typed them into the computer that the University provided its faculty and that might have been state-of-the-art five years ago. After saving the document with a password, he connected to the Internet and looked up Sunnydale, California.

There was a map of the City and tourist information extolling the various attractions, such as the scenic lake and the museum, and making mention of the existence of 43 churches. ‘What town needed 43 churches?’ Methos wondered. He didn’t think the Board of Tourism or the Chamber of Commerce were going to give him the information he was looking for. Whatever that was.

He scrolled through the hits he’d gotten when he typed in his search. Aha! A local paper, The Sunnydale Herald. Methos clicked on the link and read the day’s headlines. He reviewed the entire paper, and then went back to May and moved forward. The only thing he found was references to strange storms and an excessive amount of crime attributed to gangs. He froze as he read a headline about a strange death on one of the back pages.

It sounded familiar. He went back and scrolled through the previous issues. There were an awful lot of deaths in Sunnydale, many of them attributed to strange neck injuries. Well, it looked like whatever had brought Miss Willow Rosenburg to Seacouver, she was lucky to have made it out of Sunnydale alive.

When Methos finished his research and shut down the computer, it was already past one o’clock and he was going to be late for his sparring session with Mac. He grabbed his coat and his briefcase, and headed out to the faculty parking lot. The day was sunny and warm, and despite the fact that he was in a hurry to meet Mac, he slowed his steps and let the sun warm him. He was really not looking forward to wintering in Seacouver!

~*~*~*~

MacLeod had already changed into sweat pants and a tank top, and was warming up when he sensed Methos’ presence. He glanced up to watch the other man saunter into the dojo.

“Sorry I’m late,” he drawled. “Just give me a minute to change and I’ll be right out,” he hefted his duffel.

“Take your time,” Duncan smiled and watched Methos disappear into the locker rooms at the back of the dojo. Methos had been here less than a month and Duncan was already relying on his company. He remembered returning home the day Methos had arrived in Seacouver and finding the older Immortal sprawled out on his couch, looking at him through heavily-lidded eyes. The man had probably just woken up when he felt Mac’s presence, but he looked like he’d just been fucked insensible.

Shit! Duncan rearranged his sweats, glad that he was wearing the baggy pants. He’d stood in the elevator, just staring at the other man, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering. He’d never thought about Methos and sex in the same, well, thought, but he had then. And obviously was now, he shook his head at the tightness in his groin. This was going to be torture.

Thank goodness the dojo was nearly empty, the afternoon crowd consisting mainly of housewives, college students, and hard-core builders. The lunch crowd had already returned to work, and the rest of the working crowd wouldn’t show up until after five. Then again, maybe having nothing but Methos to think about wasn’t such a good idea. By the time Methos came back out, Duncan had managed to will his erection away, but it hadn’t been easy.

Duncan smiled to himself when he felt Methos’ presence drawing near. “Sorry,” Methos apologized again.

“No problem,” Duncan replied as he turned around, the smile freezing on his face. Methos was wearing a pair of grey cotton workout shorts and an old grey t-shirt with the sleeves torn off. Duncan almost choked on his next breath as he avidly devoured the sight of Methos’ arms and shoulders. He rarely got a chance to see the long, lean body the older Immortal hid under baggy clothes, and he was always surprised to realize how muscular he was.

“You alright?” Methos asked worriedly.

“Yeah, fine,” Duncan waved his concern away. “I think the air’s a little dry in here,” he turned away to take a drink of water, and then picked up his sword. “Ready?”

“I’m ready,” Methos replied, his sword still held at his side, waiting for Duncan to make the first move.

“So how was your first day of class?” Duncan asked, as he got into position, and then made the first stroke.

“Fine,” Methos replied, countering.

The two men were silent for the rest of their workout, except for grunts of exertion and infrequent swearing when a blade got too close. When they were done sparring almost two hours later, both men were panting and covered in sweat. Duncan grabbed a towel and tossed it to Methos, then grabbed one for himself and wiped the sweat off of his face and neck.

“Stay for supper?” Duncan asked casually, as they were wiping their swords down.

“Sure,” Methos agreed. “I’ll just shower and meet you upstairs, shall I?” Methos headed for the locker room while Duncan went up to the loft to shower.

Twenty minutes later, Methos was seated at the counter with a beer in his hand watching Duncan chop vegetables for a salad while chicken breasts browned on the stove. His hair was still wet and a drop of water ran down his neck. “What’s wrong, Methos?” Duncan finally asked.

“What do you mean?” the other man hedged.

“Don’t be coy,” Duncan didn’t even bother to look up. “Something has been bothering you since you got here, and I’d like to know what it is.”

Methos sighed deeply. “There’s this girl in my class,” he said, and paused.

“And...?” Duncan urged him to continue.

“She’s pre-Immortal.” Methos finished his beer and slid off of the stool to grab another one.

“You’re sure?” Duncan held the knife poised in the air, his eyes following Methos.

“Of course I’m sure,” Methos replied heatedly.

“And she concerns you?” Duncan asked, trying to figure out what had Methos so preoccupied.

“Bloody hell!” Methos leaned his hip against the counter. “I’ve met this girl once and I’m already worried about what might happen to her if she becomes Immortal. *You’ve* done this to me!” Methos pointed the hand that held the beer at Duncan and then twisted the top off and tossed it behind the refrigerator. “What?” he asked innocently when he met Duncan’s eyes.

“What are you worried about?” Duncan asked. “I mean, if she becomes Immortal?”

“Her survival,” Methos placed the bottle to his lips and took a long draw of the cold liquid. “I mean, she’s just a tiny thing. She wouldn’t stand a chance in the Game.”

~*~*~*~

Willow checked her watch, four-thirty. She had plenty of time to get home and help Giles with supper. She wondered if he was going to want to go out and patrol later. She didn’t think Seacouver was as rife with vampire activity as Sunnydale, or even LA, but she could use the exercise. She gathered up her books and stuffed everything back into the book bag, then left the library and headed to the student parking lot.

Traffic had started to pick up, but even so, it only took her ten minutes to get home. Well, to the half-of-a-house that she would be living in while she was here in Seacouver. Giles had rented it for one year, with an automatic renewal for the next four years, in case she decided to stay here for graduate classes also. Most days she’d be able to walk to school, she hoped, but today she’d taken the SUV because she knew she’d be buying all of her books and didn’t want to have to carry them home.

There was no garage, so she pulled up in front of the house and parked on the street. She walked around the SUV to get her book bag and the shopping bags that held her textbooks, and carried them to the house. The front door was opened, so she just pulled the screen door open with her pinky and slipped inside, letting the screen door bang shut behind her.

“Honey, I’m home!” she called as she set the bags on the floor. Willow saw movement out of the corner of her eye and lifted her head towards the living room.

“Hi, Spike,” she greeted the blond vampire who lounged against the doorframe.

Chapter Two

“Red,” Spike greeted her, his voice flat. Willow sometimes missed the sarcastic, snarky responses Spike could always be counted on for...before, but she couldn’t blame him. She didn’t always feel like fun-girl herself these days. “How was your first day?”

“Pretty good,” she smiled. “I’m not sure the professor likes me, though, which kinda sucks, ‘cause I have him for two classes, but I explored the campus, and it’s really pretty, and I checked out the library, which is so *huge*! Oh, and I picked up my books,” she toed the bags at her feet, ending her ramble.

“That’s good,” Spike said. “Watcher’s on the phone,” he continued. “Said something about barbequing a steak when you got home, you know, to celebrate your first day.”

“Sounds good,” Willow said, heading for the kitchen. “Did he say what else we’re having?”

“Might’ve,” Spike said, as he followed her. “Wasn’t really listening,” he admitted, running his hand through his hair and down his neck, giving her an apologetic look.

“That’s okay,” she smiled, and then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Sometimes, when we were researching, I would...make sure I ate *all* my vegetables,” she finished as Giles came through the doorway. “Hi, Giles!” she tried for a perky smile.

“Willow,” Giles greeted her. “I thought I heard you come in. How was your first day?”

“It was good,” Willow said. “Spike said we’re having steak?”

Giles started the barbeque and put the steak on. He grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and sat on the back porch while the steak was cooking so he could keep an eye on it. Willow chopped vegetables for a salad while Spike grated cheese for the baked potatoes Willow found in the oven. Everything had a homey feel to it, but it was fake. Just as fake as the cheerful facade she wore for Giles.

She wasn’t happy. Hadn’t been happy since Tara left her, except for that brief, glorious moment when Tara had returned, just before she’d been shot and taken away forever. She was learning how to control her powers, but she couldn’t control her aching heart. And she knew magic wouldn’t fix it, because she’d tried that once before; when Oz left.

And Giles; he tried to pretend that things were good. She knew he loved her; he wouldn’t be helping her if he didn’t love her. But she was afraid he’d never trust her again. She’d said and done some pretty terrible things to him after she had filled herself with magic and used it to kill one of the men who had been responsible for Tara’s death, then attempted to kill the other two. And then made the brilliant decision to end the world.

But it had been so hard. The suffering had been pervasive, choking her. And not just her own, but that of the entire world. It consumed her, and she had wanted nothing more than to end it. An end to the agony and the misery. But they had managed to stop her. *Xander* had managed to stop her, to tap into the little bit of humanity she had left. Then he held her while she cried. And she hadn’t spoken to him since Giles took her to England. She’d been too afraid. He’d said that he loved her, but how could he? And if he didn’t, she didn’t want to know.

Near the beginning of August, Willow’s homesickness had started to set in. And then one night, Spike was there. A knock on the door at ten o’clock, just as she and Giles were both settling down with hot cocoa and a book, and Willow had opened the door to the once-blond vampire. At the time, they didn’t know where he’d been, or how he found them, but she was so desperate for some little piece of Sunnydale that she had been ridiculously happy to see him.

He’d been thin and gaunt, his hair curling and light brown, his clothes dirty and torn, and he’d looked at her through haunted eyes. Eyes that reminded her of her own, when she could stand to look at herself in the mirror. “Spike?” she’d asked, because she hadn’t been completely sure.

“Red,” he said, and then his legs wobbled, and before she could stop herself, Willow was out the door and catching him before he fell. They ended up in an awkward sprawl on the front step, and then Spike crawled away from her. “No, don’t. Don’t touch me,” he moaned, sitting with his back to her, his fingers combing through his hair, making it stick up. “I’m not clean. Dirty. Evil. Disgusting. Thing.”

“You can take a shower and we’ll wash your clothes,” Willow offered softly, as she rose to her knees and knelt beside him.

“Not here!” he’d shouted, plucking at his t-shirt. “In here,” he pounded his chest. “I keep saying ‘sorry’, but they won’t leave me alone,” he cried pitifully, glancing at Willow, before quickly looking away.

“Oh,” Willow sat beside him. “Me too.”

That night Spike slept on the sofa. Willow managed to convince Giles to let him in the house, but it hadn’t been easy, and he’d only agreed to one night.

“I know what he did to Buffy!” Giles had hissed at her over Spike’s head, where he still sat on the front porch, lost somewhere in his own mind.

“And we all know what Buffy did to him,” Willow replied. “They did not have a healthy relationship, granted, but it took two to make it that way. Besides,” she turned back to Spike, “we cannot just leave him out here. He might not get in out of the sun...

“One can only hope,” Giles muttered, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose, thinking that it would be so much easier if he could just sweep the vampire off of his front steps and out of their lives come morning.

“...and it doesn’t look like he’s been eating,” Willow continued, ignoring Giles’ comment.

“One night,” Giles said, as he replaced the glasses.

“Thank you, Giles! I’ll get him some blood tomorrow,” Willow said, as she stood and reached for Spike’s arm. “Come on,” she tugged on his arm, and Spike obediently rose to his feet. “Luckily for us, no one will think it’s weird when we ask for blood. Come in, Spike,” Willow turned to Spike and invited him into the house, and then half-dragged him across the threshold. “I mean, you people, uh, English, er, British, well, anyway, you use it to make stuff, like,” she grimaced, “pudding.”

Willow urged Spike into the shower and took his dirty clothes to be washed...or thrown out. Giles supplied a pair of old jeans that ended up being too large for Spike, who had lost a lot of weight. While he was in the shower, Willow made up the couch for him to sleep on so that Giles didn’t have to do anything, and then heated him up a cup of hot cocoa, remembering how much he’d liked it when Joyce used to make it for him.

Spike was a little more coherent the next day, after Willow got him some blood to drink. That night he told Willow about the soul, and how much it burned. She asked him how, and he explained about the demon in Africa, and the tests he’d undergone, and passed, to receive the soul. She asked him why, and he had been silent for a long time, long enough for Willow to think he wasn’t going to answer, before saying, “For Buffy.”

“Are you going back to Sunnydale, then?” she asked, and he shook his head ‘no’. “Why not?”

“Got the soul so I could be good enough for her. Just made me realize how much of a monster I really am,” he replied, and then fell silent, refusing to speak for the rest of the night. And Giles let him sleep on the sofa again.

The next night Willow told Spike how she had tried to end the world. How she had killed a man, how she had hurt and threatened to kill her friends, and why she was in England with Giles. And then she told him about Tara, and Spike held her while she cried.

One night had turned to two, to a week, to two weeks. Willow realized that it made her feel good, human, to take care of someone, and to be able to talk to someone who understood her pain, someone who she had something in common with - they were both monsters. And when Giles made reservations for their flight to Seacouver, he made them for night flights, and bought three tickets. The night before they left England, Willow asked Spike if he wanted to go see Angel. His whole body had shuddered.

“No,” he shook his head emphatically. “No.”

“Why not?” Willow asked. “He has a soul, too. He might be able to help you.”

“He hates me,” Spike said, and looked away, but not before Willow saw the tears brimming in his eyes.

“I know how you feel,” Willow whispered, and pulled her legs up in under her so that she could lean against Spike’s shoulder.

“Angel hates you, too?” Spike asked, a crease furrowing his brow.

“No,” Willow shook her head, “though he might if he knew what I did. I meant...Buffy and Xander.”

“They don’t hate you, Red,” Spike tried to reassure her. But he heard voices in his head, so what did he know?

“How can they not?” she asked.

~*~*~*~

After a long, leisurely dinner, Methos challenged Duncan to a game of chess. Not wanting the old man to leave yet, Duncan readily agreed. While Methos set up the board, Duncan went to the cupboard and returned with a bottle of Glenfiddich Ancient Reserve 18 and two tumblers, which he set on the coffee table next to the chess board, and then pulled a chair up across from Methos.

He poured two fingers of scotch into each tumbler, picked one up, and leaned back in the chair to watch Methos finish setting up the board. Duncan took a sip of the scotch as he gazed at Methos’ long, elegant fingers, mesmerized. The man had such slender, graceful hands, yet wielded a broadsword with deadly precision. Duncan wondered what those hands would feel like as they caressed his...

“White or black?” Methos’ voice interrupted his train of thought and Duncan looked up sharply at the other man, hoping he didn’t look as guilty as he felt.

“Black,” he replied, and returned to his study of Methos’ hands as the older Immortal turned the board and made the first move. Duncan pretended to examine the board, his eyes half-closed. He watched Methos pick up the glass and drink, his eyes moving from Methos’ hand to his throat as he swallowed.

“Mmm,” Methos made an appreciative noise and turned the bottle to read the label. “Excellent scotch, MacLeod. Though I expect no less,” he raised his glass towards Duncan in a mock-salute.

Duncan forced his thoughts away from Methos’ hands and throat. “I’m glad you approve, old man,” he replied, his voice deep and husky, and leaned forward and made his move. He relaxed back in the chair and watched Methos sit forward to study the board. Methos also had wonderful cheekbones, Duncan thought.

Three hours and half a bottle of the Glenfiddich later, Methos moved his rook to block Duncan’s king, and said, “Checkmate.”

Duncan contemplated the board. He wondered why the game had taken so long. He’d been so distracted by Methos’ blasted hands, he’d barely paid any attention to the game at all. Methos should have easily beaten him three times over. “So it is,” he replied equably, wondering how he was even able to speak. “Another drink?” he offered, motioning toward the bottle.

“No, thanks. I should probably get going,” Methos replied. “I’ve got a departmental meeting before my office hours in the morning. A breakfast meeting,” he emphasized. “Remind me again why I’m doing this to myself?” he asked rhetorically, as he stood and carried his empty glass to the sink.

“Because you think I can’t live without you?” Duncan replied, and Methos quickly turned his head to look at the other man. “Er, stay alive without you,” Duncan corrected, as he bent to pick up the bottle and return it to the cupboard. Christ, he thought. The last thing he needed was Methos seeing him mooning over him.

When he had collected himself, he turned back to the other man, a small smile on his face. Methos was putting on his coat, automatically checking to make sure the sword was properly sheathed in the lining.

“Goodnight, MacLeod,” Methos said, as he picked up his duffel bag and headed towards the door. “Thanks for dinner. And the scotch.”

“You’re welcome, Methos. Goodnight,” Duncan replied, walking him to the door, and locking it after he disappeared through it. For a moment, he stood with his hand on the knob, willing the old man back, then wondering what in hell he would say, or do, if he actually showed up. With a groan, he pushed away from the door and carried his own glass to the kitchen.

He turned off the lights and undressed, then lay on the bed atop the comforter. He was hard and aching from staring at Methos all evening. The old man really was going to be the death of him. He closed his eyes and pictured Methos’ face, his lips curved in a knowing grin, his eyes lit up with mirth.

His hand found his erection and he brushed his fingers lightly across it, then loosely wrapped them around it, imagining that it was Methos’ long, slender fingers holding him. He moved his hand up his shaft and let his thumb graze the tip. Pre-come oozed from the slit and he smeared it across the top.

He slid his hand back down, then up. He spread his legs and cupped his balls in his other hand, gently rolling and kneading them as he stroked his cock. He imagined Methos kneeling between his legs, stroking him, and then the black head lowered and Methos took him into his mouth, and Duncan came.

~*~*~*~

Son of a bitch! Methos tossed the duffel into the front seat of his 1996 Jeep Grand Cherokee, well within the income range of Dr. Adam Pierson, and threw himself in after it. He wanted to touch himself, or at the very least, loosen his jeans which were tight enough to cut off his circulation, but he knew that if he did that he wouldn’t leave until he came. Not that it would take long, but he didn’t want Mac to wonder why he was still here.

He thought that game would never end, but he’d been too distracted by MacLeod to finish it any quicker. He was surprised that the Highlander hadn’t beaten him, he’d paid such little attention to the board. The damned man was just so...well there was no other word, the man was bloody gorgeous, and Methos hadn’t been able to keep his mind on the game. And now he was sporting a hard-on like some randy teenager, for god’s sake!

He started the Jeep and pulled away from the dojo. If he sped, he could make it home in ten minutes. Methos made it in five. Once inside his apartment, he locked the door, tossed his duffel through the bedroom doorway, then started pulling his shirt off as he strode to the bathroom. He turned on the shower to let it warm up, and then untied his laces. He kicked the boots off, and shucked his jeans and socks.

Once the water was warm, he stepped into the shower. Only then did he allow himself to touch his erection. With a loud groan, he wrapped his fingers around the straining flesh and forced himself to move his hand slowly up the shaft until he reached the head, and then back down. He braced one hand on the wall as he continued to stroke himself.

He closed his eyes and imagined Mac standing behind him, his arms wrapped around him, one hand on his chest, holding him tight, the fingers of his other closed around Methos’ cock. He felt Mac’s erection pressing against his buttocks as Mac thrust his hips in time with his hand on Methos’ flesh. Then Mac whispered his name and Methos came.

~*~*~*~

They had done a mini-patrol earlier so that Willow could get some exercise and Giles and Spike could get out of the house they’d been stuck in most of the day. After they got home, Willow did some studying and then went to bed. She’d only been in bed for a couple of minutes when her bedroom door was quietly pushed opened. Willow rolled over and peered at the silhouette framed in the doorway. “Spike?” she asked sleepily.

“Can’t sleep,” he said softly. “The voices...”

“Come here,” she whispered, lifting the blankets. Spike shut the door and padded silently across the dark room, slipping beneath the sheets and curling up in front of Willow, who wrapped her arms around him, and held him while he slept.

Spike had come to her for the past two nights, ever since their return to the west coast. She knew she didn’t deserve the comfort for herself, though she craved it, but Spike did, and she was doing this for him. If it helped her sleep, too, no one had to know.

Chapter Three

When Willow woke up the next morning, Spike was gone. Somehow, he always managed to be up before Giles realized he hadn’t spent the night in his own bed. Willow showered and dressed for class in a pair of jeans, a sapphire blue t-shirt with cap sleeves and a rounded neck-line, and a pair of sneakers, then packed her book bag. She had Psych in the morning and the seminar with Dr. Pierson in the afternoon.

She carried the bag and her jean jacket downstairs, and found Spike and Giles in the kitchen. Both had mugs in front of them and both were reading a section of the morning paper. She smiled to herself at the similarity. “Morning!” she greeted them, setting her book bag on the floor and pouring a glass of orange juice.

“Morning, Willow,” Giles looked up from the paper. “Can I get you anything to eat?”

“I’m not really hungry,” Willow said, as she sat at the table.

“Need to eat, Red,” Spike said without looking away from the paper. “Have a piece of toast. Wheat. With peanut butter.”

“Yes, dad,” Willow replied sarcastically, as she stood to grab an English muffin, just to be contrary, and split it, dropping the halves into the toaster. She turned around to get the peanut butter, and saw Spike staring at her, a knowing look on his face. She blushed at her own transparency, and stuck her tongue out at him, then continued to the cupboard for a plate.

As much as she found new purpose in taking care of Spike, he seemed to need to take care of her, always making sure she ate and got enough sleep. By the time the muffin popped up, Willow had assembled the peanut butter, plate, knife, and spoon and a glass of milk that was waiting at her place at the table.

She spread peanut butter over the warm muffin, then stuck the spoon into the jar and scooped out a heaping tablespoon of peanut butter. She put the jar back in the cupboard and tossed the knife in the sink, then carried her plate to the table. She sat down, ignoring Spike, and took a bite of the muffin, the gooey peanut butter sticking to the roof of her mouth. After she finished swallowing, she took a long drink of cold milk.

She finally looked up at the vampire, who was staring at the spoon on her plate. He noticed her looking at him, and raised his eyes to hers. Willow tried to stare him down, but knew it was no use. He was a vampire...his eyes weren’t going to dry out. She gave up and handed him the spoon. Spike grinned, and stuck it in his mouth.

~*~*~*~

Willow arrived at the campus before her ten o’clock class, and went to the library to read the next chapter in her Psych text. She’d finished the assignment for today when she was at the library yesterday, but figured it couldn’t hurt to read ahead. At ten minutes to nine, Willow stood and shoved the book into her bag. She found the late registration slip for this class and stuck it in the front pocket of her jeans, and then headed out of the library.

After class, she sat on one of the benches she’d found yesterday when she explored the campus, and read the rest of the first chapter in the textbook for her class on Ancient Greece. She didn’t know if Dr. Pierson was going to start with the first chapter, but it would only help her to read it anyway. Besides, the one thing that hadn’t changed for Willow was the fact that she loved homework.

Her stomach started to grumble and Willow checked her watch. Almost twelve-thirty already. She pulled out the bag that Spike had packed for her. Raspberry yogurt with diced banana, a granola bar, crushed, a plastic spoon, and a bottle of water. She smiled to herself as she opened the plastic container of yogurt and the package of granola, and then carefully poured the granola into the yogurt.

She threw the wrapper back into the bag, and stirred the yogurt. She rearranged herself on the bench, crossing her legs in under her Indian-style, and placing the opened textbook over them. She picked up the yogurt and ate as she continued to read, stopping every once in a while to highlight something interesting.

And that was how Methos found her. He’d gone to the cafeteria to grab a sandwich before class, having gotten up too late to make anything for lunch if he was going to be on time for the departmental meeting, which had been as boring as he’d expected. He was on his way back to his office with the sandwich when he felt the faint buzz of pre-immortality.

He stopped walking and looked around him, spotting the redhead sitting on one of the benches, a plastic dish in one hand, and a highlighter in the other as she bent her head over the book cradled in her lap. He looked at her for a moment, and then shook his head and continued on his way. She wasn’t his concern.

Willow checked her watch again. Quarter to two. She set her dish aside and closed the book, shoving it and the highlighter into her book bag. She threw her trash in the garbage can near the bench she was sitting on, and then headed for the ladies room in the basement of the lecture hall where her next class was being held.

She rinsed out the dish, dried it with one of the paper towels, and shoved it into her bag, then went to the bathroom and washed her hands. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her normally pale skin still had that pasty look to it. She wasn’t sure if that was from guilt, or having spent three months in England. Either way, now that she’d moved to Seacouver, it probably wasn’t going away any time soon. She ran her fingers through hair that hung down to her shoulders, brushing it away from her face.

Shaking herself out of her reverie, Willow pulled her class schedule and another pink slip out of the front zipper pocket of her book bag. She checked the schedule for the classroom number, and the pink slip to make sure it was for the correct class, and then pulled the bathroom door open and headed out to find the classroom.

This classroom was larger than the other, and over half of the seats were already full by the time Willow arrived. Dr. Pierson was sitting at the front of the room, his feet propped on the desk as he read a book. Willow nervously walked towards the desk to give him her late registration slip, and noticed that he was wearing clothing similar to those he’d had on yesterday; a pair of stone-washed blue jeans, a light-blue, light-weight sweater with the sleeves pushed up, and worn hiking boots.

He glanced up at her when she reached the side of the desk. “Miss Rosenburg,” he drawled, holding out his hand for the slip of paper she carried. Willow handed it over without saying anything, and then realized that she probably should speak.

“Uh, hi, er, professor, um, Dr. Pierson,” she stammered.

He just raised an eyebrow at her and said, “Why don’t you have a seat?”

Willow turned away, mortified. What an idiot, she thought, and lifted her hand to slap her forehead before thinking better of it. She glanced around the classroom, and then took a seat in the second row near the windows. She got the textbook, a notebook, a pen, and a highlighter out of her bag, and then turned her head to stare out the windows.

“Good afternoon,” Willow heard Dr. Pierson say several minutes later, and turned her attention back to the classroom.

~*~*~*~

Over the next few days, Willow started to get into a routine. She had four classes this semester, Psych on Monday, Wednesday and Friday at ten o’clock in the morning, Ancient Languages on Tuesday and Thursday at nine o’clock in the morning, Ancient Greece on Wednesday at two o’clock in the afternoon, and Advanced Computer Programming: Gaming on Monday at one o’clock in the afternoon.

She and Giles had met with Mrs. Kendricks on Monday, since classes hadn’t started yet, to review Willow’s class schedule and set up times for her to meet with the Wiccan group. For the moment they agreed to meet two times a week, Tuesday afternoon and Friday afternoon, for three hours each.

In addition, Mrs. Kendricks had suggested a physical outlet, in conjunction with meditation, to deal with any stress that might build up so that Willow wouldn’t be tempted to fall back on her magic. She had given them the name of an individual who might be willing to take on a new student, and Friday morning after her class, Willow and Giles had an appointment with Mr. Duncan MacLeod.

When Giles pulled up outside the dojo, Willow examined the front of the building. “It doesn’t look like much,” she said softly.

“No,” Giles agreed, “but it’s the inside that counts. And I’m sure Mrs. Kendricks wouldn’t have suggested him unless he was good. Come on,” he patted Willow’s arm, and then pushed his door open. Willow climbed out of the SUV and followed Giles into the building. It was larger inside than it looked from the outside, mostly because you couldn’t see how far back the building went.

There were free-weights and a nautilus system, stationary bikes and treadmills, and mats covered one corner of the floor. Willow watched as a muscular woman stood over an equally muscular man who was benching, ready to catch the weights if he faltered. Willow turned her attention back to their purpose and followed Giles towards the back of the large room to what looked like an office.

A tall man with broad shoulders, long, dark hair, dark eyes, and bronzed skin stood in the doorway to the office. Giles was shaking his hand and introducing himself, and Willow heard him mention Mrs. Kendricks’ name, and then the man turned his eyes onto Willow.

“You must be Willow,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Uh, yes,” Willow swallowed hard. “Willow, that’s me. And you are Mr. MacLeod?” she asked.

“Please, call me MacLeod, or Mac,” he replied as he let Willow’s hand slip from his. “Why don’t you come in here and have a seat, where we can have a bit more privacy?” he indicated the office behind him.

Before they could move, Willow heard a familiar voice bellow, “Dammit, MacLeod, there aren’t any towels in the locker room!”

Willow turned her head, certain she had to be wrong, to see Dr. Pierson striding across the dojo. Except he didn’t look like the same Dr. Pierson who stood in front of the classroom and taught about ancient language and ancient Greece. He was wearing a pair of sweat pants that rode low on his hips and was holding a balled-up t-shirt in one hand, using it to mop the sweat off of his bare chest, and carrying a sword in the other.

Willow’s mouth dropped open and she quickly averted her gaze, sure she turned ten different shades of red. “Dr. Pierson,” she nearly gasped.

“Miss Rosenburg,” Methos replied, after regaining his equilibrium. What in hell was the girl doing here? Of all the dojos in all the world, he thought. He *knew* she was trouble, dammit!

“Ah, you’re one of Willow’s professors,” the older man with the redhead said, and then held out his hand. “I’m Giles, Rupert Giles, Willow’s, uh, friend.”

So that’s how it was, Methos thought. Her *friend* indeed. “Yes,” he replied aloud, as he moved the t-shirt to his other hand and took the proffered hand, “Dr. Adam Pierson. So, what brings you to the dojo?” he asked.

“We’re hoping that Mr. MacLeod,” Giles indicated the man leaning against the doorframe, “will agree to teach Willow.”

“Teach?” Methos’ face went white.

“Yes,” Duncan took pity on him, “martial arts. We were just going to discuss that now. Why don’t you go take your shower,” he patted Methos’ shoulder, “I’ll have Matt bring in some towels.”

“Right, well, nice meeting you,” Methos nodded at Giles, and then towards Willow, before turning and heading back to the locker room.

“Why don’t you go on in and sit down,” Duncan said as he slipped past Willow and Giles, “I’ll just get Matt to take in some towels and be right back.”

“What’s wrong?” Duncan heard Giles ask Willow as he moved away from the office to find Matt.

“I told you he didn’t like me,” was Willow’s subdued response.

~*~*~*~

“Well?” Methos, now showered and dressed in jeans and a baggy, hunter green sweat shirt, leaned against the doorframe and stared at Duncan.

“Well what?” Duncan asked distractedly as he totaled a column of figures on the adding machine.

Methos walked into the office and shut the door, then leaned over the desk. “Well, did you agree to teach her?” he asked slowly, deliberately.

“Oh, that,” Duncan replied, writing the figure down at the bottom of the column before looking up at Methos. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Methos exploded. “Yes?” he dropped into a chair on the other side of the desk. “Why?”

“Why not?” Duncan asked.

“Because she’s...she’s *pre-Immortal*!” he lowered his voice.

“Yes,” Duncan nodded. “Could have knocked me over with a feather when your pre-Immortal walked into my dojo,” he grinned.

“She’s not *my* anything!” Methos insisted. “You’re just asking for trouble, MacLeod. We should not get involved with this girl.”

“Until she dies a violent death, she *is* just a girl, Methos,” Duncan spoke softly. “Besides, I owe Sarah a favor, and she asked me to take the girl on.”

“Sarah?” Methos asked.

“Yeah, Sarah Kendricks,” Duncan replied as he gathered up the papers he’d been working on and filed them. “Lunch?”

“Sure,” Methos agreed. “After you shower. You can take me out to lunch. There’s this great place near my apartment I’ve been wanting to try...”

Chapter Four

At two o’clock that afternoon, Willow had her first meeting with the Seacouver coven. Several women were there to greet her so that she could meet the different ladies who would be taking turns teaching her. After everyone had introduced themselves, they asked Willow to tell them what she had done, about her training with the coven in Westbury, and what she had learned from it.

Willow had visibly flinched at this suggestion, and Kari, one of the younger members of the coven, had explained that if she couldn’t even talk about it, she wasn’t going to be able to heal. Understanding the reasoning behind it didn’t make it any easier. She was embarrassed and guilt-ridden over what she had done, and she knew that her friends wouldn’t, shouldn’t, be able to forgive her.

“But you need to forgive yourself, Willow,” Mrs. Kendricks said softly, as if she could read her mind. “Healing must start from within.”

Willow haltingly told them everything that had happened to her, from the battle with Glory, to bringing Buffy back, to losing Tara because of the forget spell, to Rack, to hurting Dawn, to stopping her use of magic, to Tara’s death and Willow’s desire for vengeance, and finally, her bid to end the world. By the time she was done, Willow was an emotional wreck.

Paula, another of the Wiccan ladies, prepared a soothing herbal tea while Willow took some time to recover. Over tea and cookies, Willow told them what she had been doing with the coven in Westbury, the techniques she used to control her powers and the emotions that triggered them, and how the magic inside her allowed her to see that everything was connected.

“And what have you learned?” Abigail asked.

“I’ve learned that magic can’t solve everything, and that vengeance doesn’t make the pain stop,” Willow replied.

Because it was nearing five o’clock, the ladies joined in a group meditation to calm and soothe them all after Willow’s harrowing revelations. At five, Giles was there to pick her up, as he had needed the SUV to run some errands while she was with the coven.

~*~*~*~

Methos stopped in front of the Alborz Restaurant. “‘Fine Persian cuisine’?” Duncan read the sign. “I don’t remember this place, is it new?”

“You’re asking *me*?” Methos made a face. “I’m the one who just moved here, MacLeod!”

“Well, I guess I haven’t been down this way much lately,” Duncan defended himself as he walked past Methos, who graciously pulled the door open and held it for him.

They were seated by a young woman wearing a light-weight tan shift and brown sandals, and immediately given menus and glasses of water with sprigs of mint. Methos opened his menu, glanced over the selections quickly, and then closed it and laid it on the table. Duncan looked at him over the top of his menu.

“I thought you’d never been here before?” he asked suspiciously.

“I haven’t,” Methos said, as he looked around the restaurant. The walls were covered with post-modern Persian paintings, the lighting was dim enough to be relaxing, and carefully hidden speakers emitted serene music. “I just know what I like,” he glanced at Duncan and raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Duncan laughed and shook his head, ducking back behind his menu before Methos could see the grimace on his face as he fought an erection. And he wouldn’t be surprised if he was blushing. ‘Stupid fool!’ he thought. It wasn’t as if Methos was talking about him, but once he got the idea of Methos as a possible lover in his head, almost everything the man did or said brought the image to life. He pushed the picture of Methos tilting his head back so Duncan could suck on his neck out of his head, and tried to concentrate on the words in front of him.

Moments after Duncan laid the menu down, the woman who had seated them drifted over and softly asked if they were ready to order. Methos ordered the Kashk Bodemjon as an appetizer, Baby cucumber pickle, two skewers of the Koobideh kebab, and the traditional Persian tea. Duncan ordered the Sabzi, Alborz Soup, Zireh Saffron rice Chicken, and the Minty Green tea.

The waitress brought their tea and Methos took a sip of his. “Ah, not bad,” he said. “Almost like I remember it.”

“I’m sure things have changed a lot in the last couple of centuries,” Duncan teased, taking a sip of his own tea. Duncan put his cup down and watched Methos do his best to not look directly at him. “Say it!” he finally demanded.

“Say what?” Methos asked innocently.

“Whatever it is that’s on your mind,” Duncan replied, not fooled at all.

“I could talk myself hoarse...”

“And often do,” Duncan muttered.

“...and it wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference,” Methos insisted.

“And we are talking about?” It was Duncan’s turn to play naive.

“You know damned well what I’m talking about, MacLeod,” Methos hissed.

“You know,” Duncan leaned back in his seat and forced himself to relax, “she thinks you don’t like her.”

“And she’d be *right*!” Methos replied, and then shook his head.

“I know that’s not true,” Duncan said. “I know it scares you to think that any of your friends...”

“I don’t have any friends,” Methos mumbled.

“...are going to be hurt or killed, and I know you don’t want to take on a student, but she’s not Immortal, Methos, and she may never be. She’s just a girl. You’re teaching her about ancient languages and I’m going to teach her a bit about martial arts,” Duncan tried to placate the older Immortal.

“And if she dies,” Methos said, “will you be able to walk away?”

“Would you?” Duncan countered.

“Yes,” Methos hissed. “Yes, yes, and yes!”

Duncan just smiled.

“Wipe that silly grin off of your face!” Methos demanded.

Both men were silent as the waitress placed their appetizers before them. As soon as she walked away, their conversation resumed.

“Do you want to know what I think, Methos?” Mac asked as he cut off a piece of the feta-topped tomato.

“No!” Methos replied as he angrily sliced into his eggplant.

“I think that you’re concerned about getting involved with this girl.”

“Brilliant deduction, MacLeod! That’s only what I’ve been telling you!” Methos retorted.

“But not because I’m going to get involved and drag you along on one of my crazy causes,” Duncan clarified. “You’re afraid you might drag us in,” he smiled, pleased at his conclusion.

“Is that a fact?” Methos scoffed. “You’re dreaming, Highlander. I’m not the one who takes on causes, and that’s not going to change. It’s not!” he said more firmly as Duncan just continued to smile at him.

“Besides, this whole thing is just...odd! Don’t you think it’s the slightest bit strange that a pre-Immortal,” he lowered his voice, “ends up in *my* class, and the same pre-Immortal ends up at your dojo?”

“Maybe it’s fate,” Duncan mused.

“Aargh!” Methos growled and rolled his eyes, as he sat back in his chair.

~*~*~*~

That evening after sundown, Willow and Spike went on patrol while Giles relaxed with a cup of tea and a new demonology text that had arrived in the mail that afternoon. He had been spending his days looking through the papers, trying to determine if he should get a job while they were in Seacouver, or play the retired gentleman. He had also spent some time exploring the city while Spike was sleeping and Willow was at the University.

They weren’t going to be fanatical about patrolling, because Giles had Willow hack into the coroner’s office and check out the autopsy reports and there didn’t seem to be a lot of unexplained deaths in Seacouver, except for the occasional decapitation. But going out once in a while would give Willow some much needed exercise and fresh air, and would keep Spike from going insane trapped inside the house, and give him a spot of violence to satisfy his demon, even though the soul rebelled at the necessity.

They drove the SUV to the downtown area and parked on one of the side streets. They were going to walk along the main drag so that they could check out their new home, and then they were going to walk over to the park to see if there were any vampires or other demons lurking about. Giles had purchased a street map of the city while he was out, and Willow and Spike had studied it and marked the area they were going to cover that night.

They strolled down the main street, Mariner Avenue, in silence, checking out the store fronts, restaurants, and businesses. They came upon several alleys, and Spike would duck down them to see if he could find any sign of vampire activity.

“Oh, look! A movie theatre,” Willow said. “I haven’t seen a movie in...a while,” she said wistfully. “Do you like to go to the movie theatre?”

“‘S alright,” Spike said distractedly, as he lit a cigarette.

“You know those things’ll kill ya,” Willow said. Spike just looked at her and Willow gave him a small smile and a shrug.

After a couple more blocks, Willow asked, “Have you been able to sense anything?”

“Nah,” Spike said. “Nothing but heartbeats and blood,” he added.

“Does it bother you?” Willow asked, a crease furrowing her brow.

“‘M fine,” he said. “Don’t worry, Red.”

“Do you think you’ll like it here?” she asked, as they crossed the street and headed for the park.

“What do you mean?” Spike asked.

“Here, in Seacouver, with Giles, and me. Do you think you’ll like it?” Willow clarified. “You know, enough to stay?”

Spike led her to a bench, and they both sat. The park was lit with old-fashioned looking street lamps, and a concrete path wound through the park for skating, and jogging, and biking. In the center was a pond with a fountain in the middle and ducks skimming along the surface. The entire park was scattered with trees and benches.

He hadn’t thought much about what he was going to do next. Not since his brilliant decision to get a soul. Looking back, probably not one of his best ideas. He wasn’t even sure how he got from Africa to England, much less found Giles and Willow. And after that, much of his time was spent trying to quiet the voices in his head.

Voices of the people he killed, voices of the loved ones left behind, the voice of his sire telling him what a failure he was, and the voice of Buffy, telling him he was beneath her. Even with a soul, he was beneath her. Because he was a vampire. An evil, disgusting thing. The soul didn’t change that.

He glanced over at the redhead sitting next to him. She was staring at the moonlight on the water. He didn’t remember much about that first night, but he remembered her. She hadn’t questioned his presence, had just accepted him. For that alone, he owed her. But there was more. Turned out, she needed him as much as he needed her. And William the Bloody had always needed to be needed. He thought briefly of Dru.

It was odd, that he was here with Willow and Giles. Two people he hadn’t really given much thought to when he was in Sunnydale. Sure, the Watcher’d taken him in when he’d first been chipped, but it wasn’t out of the goodness of his heart, and they certainly weren’t mates. And Willow, she’d just been the Slayer’s Wiccan friend, the good little witch. Well, until she’d gone all dark mojo on them.

He’d seen that coming, but no one else wanted to believe she had it in her. Everyone has it in them. The darkness. At first, she did what she had to do, to save them all, to save Buffy. And then it started to feel good, to be that powerful. Until it took over her life and she almost got Dawn killed.

She’d felt guilty then, Spike remembered, but it was nothing to the load of guilt she was carrying around inside her now. Killing a man, trying to kill your friends, attempting to end the world...that’ll do it to you. But when you’re in pain, you’ll do almost anything to make it go away; and she had. Now she had to find a way to live with it. Just like he did. Over one hundred and twenty-six years of murder and mayhem could be laid at his feet. Hmmph! Willow had nothing on him.

He wasn’t sure why she was questioning whether he was going to stay. Maybe because they were back on the west coast, close to Buffy, close to Angel. Like he’d want to see *that* wanker again! No, there was nothing for him there. His future was right here. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to stay sane if she wasn’t around to help him quench the fire that burned in his soul - or that was his soul - and to hold him while he slept.

He reached out and took her hand. Willow glanced up at him. Her eyes were flat, as if she expected him to disappoint her and she was ready for it. As if she thought she deserved it. He remembered how they used to shine with emotion; anger, love, happiness, but now they were just...empty.

They called your eyes the window to your soul, and Willow’s soul was barren, devoid of emotion, as if she was afraid to feel. He wanted to see her eyes shine again. That was a plan that wouldn’t come back to bite him on the bum like the soul had. His new purpose in life, or unlife, was to make Willow smile, and to see that smile reflected in her eyes.

“No place else I’d rather be, Red,” he said. Willow’s lips curved into a small smile, and then she looked back out towards the water. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

Chapter Five

Willow showed up at the dojo at five minutes to ten on Saturday morning. She was wearing an old, comfy pair of grey sweats, a grey sports bra covered by a loose emerald tank, a pair of sweat socks, and a pair of sneakers. She carried a jean jacket that held her driver’s license, some cash, her checkbook, and her keys. She pushed the door open to reveal a room filled with those serious about keeping fit. The sign on the door said the dojo opened at six am on Saturday, and some of these people looked like they might have been here since then.

The light clang of weights, the shuffle of the stationary bikes and treadmills, the woof of heavy breathing, and the soft strains of the radio filled the room around her. A buff blond man with a severe crew cut was showing another man how to hold the free weights he was working with to do a proper curl. Mr. MacLeod was kneeling next to a young woman who was doing abdominal crunches. His lips were moving, and Willow wondered if he was encouraging her or counting.

Willow just stood where she was, in the middle of the dojo, waiting for him to finish with the member he was assisting, not wanting to interrupt, and not knowing where else to wait. The blond approached her.

“Hi, I’m Matt. Can I help you?” he asked.

“Uh, hi, Matt. I’m Willow. I have a ten o’clock appointment with Mr. MacLeod,” Willow said shyly.

“Ahh, you’re the ten o’clock. Nice to meet you, Willow,” Matt held out his hand with a smile, and Willow shook it. “Mac’ll be with you in just a minute. Why don’t you come on back and wait on the bench. He’ll be teaching you on the mats back here.”

“Thanks,” Willow said, and followed Matt to the back of the room.

“There’s a water cooler along the wall there,” Matt pointed it out to Willow, “and bathrooms are in the locker rooms back there.”

“Okay, thanks,” Willow managed a small, nervous smile.

“Hi, Willow,” Duncan said from behind Willow, and the small redhead spun around as if she’d been slapped.

“Uh, hi!” she gave a little wave as scarlet suffused her skin. “Sorry, you, uh, startled me.”

“That’s alright,” Duncan spoke soothingly and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Why don’t we sit on the bench over here for a moment?” he asked, taking her arm and leading her to the wooden bench, polished smooth over the years.

“Uh, okay,” Willow replied. They both sat, and Duncan turned his body so he could look at her while speaking with her.

“As we discussed yesterday, we’ll start with Tai Chi. Based on the reasons Sarah sent you to me, I think it’s the best choice to begin with.”

“The, uh, the reasons she sent me?” Willow asked nervously.

“Yes,” Duncan replied, “exercise, stress-relief, mental discipline...”

“Oh, right,” Willow breathed a sigh of relief. “Those reasons.”

“Tai Chi promotes good health, relaxation, meditation, and helps build mental strength,” Duncan explained. “We’ll start with pushing hand. First I’ll show you the individual positions, and then we’ll put them together in a complete form. Why don’t you take your sneakers and socks off,” he said, “I like to work in bare feet for this.”

“Okay,” Willow pulled one foot up and untied her sneaker, pushed it off and removed the sock, and then untied the other sneaker. When she was done, she joined Duncan on the mat.

“We’ll start with some stretching and warm-up exercises first,” he said, and then took her through them. When they were done, he straightened and turned to face her. “Alright, to begin with, you will need to place your tongue against the roof of your mouth behind your front teeth and keep your teeth closed. This connects the energy channels. And also keeps you from biting your tongue,” he smiled.

“Stand with your feet about a foot apart, and your knees slightly bent, keep your back upright, and your eyes facing where your body is facing,” he demonstrated. “Your arms at your side, your hands relaxed, but not limp, and pay special attention to your hips, because the movements will start from your waist. This spot just below your navel,” Duncan pointed to his own stomach, “is the center of your body’s chi, or vital energy. What you want to achieve is a coordinated, fluid movement of your whole body.”

For the next forty minutes, Duncan took Willow through the individual positions and then a couple of the forms of pushing hands, followed by a cool-down. When they were done with that morning’s session, he handed her a towel, and then brought her a cup of water from the cooler. They sat on the bench.

“What do you think?” Duncan asked.

“That’s harder than it looks,” Willow replied with a wry smile as she took a sip of the water and then set it aside to put her socks and sneakers on.

“It’ll get easier,” Duncan promised. “Have you been in Seacouver long?”

“No, we just moved here for the fall semester,” Willow replied.

“That’s right, you’re taking some classes with Adam,” Duncan turned the conversation where he wanted it to go. “How do you like them?”

“They’re, uh, quite interesting,” Willow replied hesitantly.

“Don’t worry,” Duncan elbowed her in the side in a friendly gesture, “Adam’s an acquired taste.”

“I didn’t...,” Willow blushed.

“Seriously,” Duncan nodded at her. “I’ve known him for years and I still don’t like him.”

Willow blushed a deeper shade of crimson. “I don’t...”

“What other classes are you taking?” he changed the subject, and Willow sputtered.

“I, um, well, Computer Programming, that’s my major, and Psychology,” she said.

“Adam’s great with computer’s too,” Duncan said. “Sometimes he’s like a kid with a toy. I think they made them just for him.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Willow said softly.

“Where were you living before you moved to Seacouver?” Duncan asked.

“Sunnydale,” Willow replied automatically. “Well, by way of England.”

“Sunnydale?” Duncan asked.

“Southern California,” Willow clarified.

“Ah,” Duncan smiled and nodded. “You’ll probably find the weather a bit different here, then.”

Willow couldn’t help the small smile that curved her lips. “So I’ve heard. Well, I should probably get going,” she finished the water and stood, looking around for a place to throw the empty cup.

“Here,” Duncan took it from her. “I’ll see you on Monday,” he smiled.

Willow nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. Bye,” she gave a little wave.

~*~*~*~

“Hey, Spike,” Willow stood in front of the couch and wrung her fingers nervously, “whatcha watchin’?”

“Movie,” he said without looking up. “Wanna watch?” he patted the seat beside him.

“No-o-o,” Willow replied. “I want you to go watch Giles with me!” she said quickly.

“No,” Spike said, looking at her. “Said he’d skin us if we showed up there.”

“I know,” Willow was practically bouncing on her toes. The moment she had seen Giles dressed in blue jeans and a light sweater, a leather jacket and guitar case beside the door, Willow had realized something was up. Giles had told them that he was going out for a little adult entertainment, not *that* kind, he’d clarified at Spike’s muffled snort, and he expected them to respect his privacy.

“We can’t let him get away with it. Please come with me. I don’t want to go alone.”

“No.”

“Please? It’ll be fun,” Willow cajoled.

“No,” he repeated, less certainly.

“Please, Spikey!” she knelt on the couch beside him and took his hand in hers and looked at him with pleading green eyes. “Please say you’ll go,” she begged.

“Arrgh, alright,” Spike agreed, knowing it had been fruitless to attempt to deny her, and wondering why he even bothered trying. “On one condition.”

“What?” Willow leaned back on her heels and looked at his face expectantly.

“You never call me Spikey again.”

Willow had the nerve to look like she was actually considering it before she smiled at him. “Okay!” she agreed, and mussed his bleached-blond hair. She had purchased the bleach and helped him dye his hair before they left England. She didn’t want him to be the big bad again, but she wanted him to have some of the same confidence he’d oozed when he had been.

“Hey! Witch,” Spike muttered as Willow jumped off of the couch and raced for the phone, running his fingers through his hair to straighten it. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Calling a cab,” she explained. “Giles took the Explorer.”

~*~*~*~

“What on Earth persuaded you to have open-mic night?” Methos asked Joe with a shudder.

“Maggie suggested it,” Joe said. “I thought I’d give it a try.”

“Pillow talk?” Methos snorted. “Or just afraid you wouldn’t get laid again if you said ‘no’?”

“Shut up, Adam,” Joe said as he struggled to his feet. “Hi, honey,” he greeted the blonde he’d seen approaching the table. She was about 45, with a pleasant figure and brown eyes that lit up when she smiled at Joe.

“Hi, Joe,” she hugged him, and then took the seat he pulled out for her. “Hello, Adam,” she said.

“Maggie,” Methos raised his beer to her.

“Where’s Duncan?” she asked, looking around the bar.

“He’s here somewhere,” Methos replied. “Why?”

“Just not used to seeing you alone. You’re usually attached at the hip,” Maggie replied, and Methos choked on the swallow of beer he’d just taken, spitting it across the table. “Oh! Here!” Maggie handed him some napkins that were lying on the table.

“What in hell are you doing?” Joe asked Methos.

“You’re blaming *me* for this?” Methos asked in surprise, as he mopped up the spilt beer.

“For what?” Duncan said as he pulled out the chair beside Methos and sat.

“Nothing,” Methos replied quickly.

“Hi, Duncan.” Methos held his breath as Maggie greeted the big, lumbering Scot. “I was just asking where you were.” Methos narrowed his eyes as she grinned at him.

“Hi, Maggie,” Duncan reached across the table and took her hand in his, kissing the knuckles.

“Stop that!” Maggie giggled as she playfully slapped Duncan’s arm. Methos rolled his eyes. Bloody Highlander, flirting with anything in a skirt.

“Oh, hell!” Methos swore.

“What is it?” Duncan asked the older Immortal, who inclined his head toward the door. Duncan turned his head to see what Methos was talking about, and saw Giles making his way towards the bar. The other man was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, and was carrying a guitar case. Giles spoke briefly to the bartender, and then turned to look their way when he pointed over at Joe. Giles thanked the man, and then headed towards their table.

Duncan turned back to Joe, “Looks like one of your acts for tonight is here.”

“You know this guy?” Joe asked curiously.

“Just met him yesterday,” Duncan said, and stood. “Giles,” he greeted the other man just as he reached their table.

“MacLeod!” Giles sounded surprised, though graciously accepted the other man’s hand. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Dr. Pierson,” he peered around Duncan and greeted the other man. Methos tipped his beer bottle at him in greeting.

“Let me introduce you,” Duncan said. “This is Joe Dawson, he owns the bar, and this lovely lady is Maggie. This is Rupert Giles.”

“Hello, Joe, Maggie,” Giles shook both of their hands as Duncan resumed his seat. “It’s nice to meet you. And please, call me Giles.”

“Hello, Giles,” Joe said. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he indicated the last empty chair at their table.

Behind Duncan, Methos groaned.

“Thank you,” Giles pulled the chair out and sat, then stood the guitar case between his legs. “This is a great place,” he said as he looked around the bar. “You have bands in?” he asked, as he glanced at the stage.

“Yes,” Joe said. “Usually local bands, sometimes I play.”

“You play?” Giles asked, his interest piqued.

“Yeah, blues mostly,” Joe said modestly.

“He’s wonderful,” Maggie enthused.

“I’d love to hear you sometime,” Giles said, leaning forward a bit.

“Perhaps we can talk him into playing tonight,” Methos drawled.

“It’s open mic,” Joe argued. “People don’t want to hear me, they hear me all the time!”

“And the place is packed when you play,” Duncan reminded him.

“Look, MacLeod...,” Joe began.

“I don’t know, Joe,” Methos looked around the bar. “After some of these people get done, they might be begging you to play tonight.”

“Hmmph!” Joe retorted, before turning back to Giles. “Not that I’m going to hold it against you,” he said, “but how do you know these reprobates.”

“Hey!” Methos said. “I resemble that remark, Joseph.”

“Actually,” Giles said, “my charge...”

“Charge?” Methos asked. “I thought she was your friend.”

“Well, yes, we are friends, but she’s more like a daughter to me. It’s rather difficult being friends with someone that much younger than you are, isn’t it?” Giles replied, and Methos spit out another mouthful of beer while Duncan hid a smile behind his own glass.

“What is with you tonight, Adam?” Joe asked as he signaled for a rag from the bar.

“Sorry, Joe,” Methos coughed.

“Anyway, you were saying?” Joe turned back to Giles.

“My young charge, Willow, is taking some classes with Dr. Pierson at the University,” Giles explained. “And we just happened to meet Mr. MacLeod through a mutual acquaintance who suggested Willow take some martial arts courses.”

“Is that right?” Joe said. “Well, isn’t this a small world!”

“Yes,” Methos said, “isn’t it?”

Chapter Six

“How’d you know where to go?” Spike asked, as the taxi dropped them outside Joe’s.

“Found the ad in one of the papers Giles was reading. They’re having open-mic night,” Willow straightened her blue jean jacket. Beneath it, she was wearing a white peasant blouse with embroidered flowers, a pair of black hip-hugger slacks, and short, black boots. Spike was wearing a black t-shirt paired with black jeans and black boots. His leather duster had been lost in Sunnydale, but they’d picked him up a black jean jacket when they replaced his tattered clothes.

Spike pulled the door open and held it for Willow. She halted just inside the door to survey the bar, looking for Giles. Before she could find him, a commotion at the front of the bar drew her attention. A man with a cane and salt-and-pepper hair was standing on the raised stage.

“Good evening, everyone,” he greeted the crowded room, and everyone started clapping and stomping their feet. The man laughed, “Alright, alright, pipe down! As you all know, we don’t have a band tonight. We’re trying something different, open-mic; a chance for all you closet musicians to get up here and strut your stuff. We still have some spots available, so if any of you want to give it a try, see that lovely lady over there,” he pointed towards someone in the corner and Willow saw a small hand waving at the crowd.

“Our first act is a gentleman who’s new to our fair city,” the man said, and Willow turned to Spike and grabbed his arm.

“That must be Giles!” she said excitedly. “We got here just in time.”

“Come on,” Spike pushed her toward the bar where a stool had just opened up, growling at the woman who thought to take it before he could prop Willow on it, and scaring her away. “Sit,” he commanded, helping Willow onto the stool. He leaned on the bar beside her and motioned to the bartender. Moments later he placed a Coke with lime in Willow’s hand and held a bottle of African Amber in his own.

“All the way from England, here’s Giles. Give him a warm welcome to Seacouver and Joe’s, won’t you?” Joe turned to Giles who was just mounting the stage and shook his hand before walking down the short ramp at the side of the stage and back over to the table.

Giles seated himself onto the stool in front of the microphone stand and adjusted the microphone. “Good evening,” he said into the mic, his lovely English accent filling the room, and the crowd applauded again. “It’s been a while since I’ve performed for an audience,” Giles continued speaking as he tuned the guitar, “so please bear with me.”

Giles scanned the crowd and saw Willow and Spike by the bar. Willow, seeing that they’d been spotted shrugged and waved at him. “I have two songs that I’d like to perform for you tonight,” Giles continued, with a shake of his head and a slight smile. “The first is “Behind Blue Eyes” originally performed by The Who.”

“Ooh, I think this is the one we heard him sing before,” Willow said, nudging Spike with her elbow.

Giles played the opening bars of the song and then began to sing,

> No one knows what it’s like,  
> to be the bad man,  
> to be the sad man,  
> behind blue eyes.  
> No one knows what it’s like,  
> to be hated,  
> to be fated,  
> to telling only lies.  
> But my dreams they aren’t as empty,  
> as my conscience seems to be,  
> I have hours, only lonely,  
> my love is vengeance,  
> that’s never free.  
> No one knows...

“You know,” Willow whispered, her voice hoarse with unshed tears, “I don’t think I ever really listened to the words before.”

“Me neither,” Spike said, his voice low, as he pulled Willow back against his chest. They both listened to the words that Giles sang, each thinking how much the song spoke to them, of them. A tear slipped out of Willow’s eye and she wiped it away. Spike saw the motion and smelled the salt, and tightened his arm around her shoulders, pressing her head to his shoulder. “Shhh,” he whispered softly, his body rocking slightly as he comforted her.

“I miss Tara,” she whispered.

“I know,” he spoke quietly into her hair.

“I wish I could go back and undo everything.”

“I know, Red, I know,” Spike said. He knew the feeling.

Before they knew it, the song was over, and applause filled the bar. Giles was grinning like an idiot and introducing his next song. “You might recognize this next song,” Giles began strumming his guitar and the strains of Lynyrd Skynard’s ‘Freebird’ filled the room. The applause returned, along with some vocal cheers. Giles ignored them, his eyes on Willow and Spike, as he began to sing, “If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?”

“Oh, goddess,” Willow groaned, wiping at her eyes again. “Maybe coming here tonight was a bad idea.”

“He’s good,” Spike said. “Heard him sing this one before.”

“Really? When?” Willow asked, distracted from her sadness.

Spike shrugged. “Don’t remember. Sometime that first year,” he replied.

~*~*~*~

“Bloody hell,” Methos swore softly in Mac’s ear as he sensed the soft buzz of a pre-Immortal and looked up to see Willow enter the bar. Duncan felt the buzz himself, and looked back to see the little redhead with a pale blond man. He saw her look around the bar as if she was searching for someone, and then speak excitedly to the blond who led her to a stool at the bar.

He watched her staring at the stage where Joe was introducing Giles, her face flushing with excitement when the other man took the stage and spoke to the bar crowd. Moments later her eyes went wide in surprise and she waved at the stage. Duncan glanced at Giles to see the man shaking his head, a slight smile curving his lips. He wondered what that was all about.

“The University, your dojo, and now Joe’s?” Methos hissed in disbelief. “Is no place sacred anymore? Christ! Could things possibly get any worse?” he slouched in his chair and took a pull on the beer.

“You know you just jinxed yourself, right?” Duncan said over his shoulder, his eyes on Giles, who had started singing. He had a nice voice, Duncan thought. Not as nice as Methos’ but...what in hell was he thinking about Methos’ voice for? He had to stop this obsession he had with Methos before the other man figured it out. The last thing he wanted was to ruin their friendship. If Methos knew he was having sexual fantasies about him, he’d probably be on the next plane out of Seacouver and Duncan wouldn’t see him again for the next century. Except when he closed his eyes. Argh!

He glanced back at Willow in time to see her wipe a tear from her face as the blond pulled her against him. He wondered if they were lovers. They looked too familiar with each other to be on a first date, and Willow had told him that they’d just moved here over the weekend, so he must have come with them. Giles ended the song and began his next.

“He’s not bad,” Methos leaned close and whispered, then leaned back in his chair, letting his legs fall apart, his thigh pressing against Duncan’s.

Duncan felt his breath hitch and his cock jump. ‘Damn old man!’ he thought. “No, he’s not,” Duncan said, letting his leg remain against the other man’s, enjoying the feel of the hard warmth.

~*~*~*~

Giles took the stage nervously. He hadn’t performed for anyone besides himself in years. He shook Joe’s hand and pulled the stool up to the microphone stand, then sat and adjusted the mic. He greeted the patrons filling the bar. This might be a tougher crowd than the Espresso Pump, he thought, and began to tune the guitar. He glanced around the bar, and his gaze arrested on a redhead and a bleached-blond standing at the bar.

He might be wrong, but he could swear he told them not to follow him. Willow waved at him. He just shook his head and smiled. He should have known that telling her to stay home would only peak her curiosity. Oh, well, not like he had anything to lose, except his dignity. He introduced his first song and began to play, then sang. He noticed Willow crying during the first song, but when he was finished with the second, she stood up with a smile on her face and clapped louder than anyone else in the bar, not that that was saying much, but they seemed to enjoy his performance.

He climbed off of the stage and put his guitar back in the case leaning against the edge of the stage while Joe introduced the next performer. He carried the case back over to the table where he’d been sitting with Joe and the others, and asked Maggie if he could leave it propped against the wall for a moment, then turned and made his way towards the bar. Several people stopped him to shake his hand or to just tell him how much they enjoyed his performance, and he was flushed with pleasure by the time he reached Willow and Spike.

“I thought I told you two to stay home,” he said in mock-sternness. Willow just smiled and jumped off of the stool to hug him.

“That was wonderful, Giles! Really beautiful,” she said, as Giles squeezed her back. She held on tight, not wanting to let go of the feeling. This wasn’t the first time Giles had touched her since she’d gone all black magic-y on them, but it was the best kind of touch, because it was spontaneous and full of affection.

“Friends of yours?” a voice asked behind Giles. Giles pulled slightly away from her and turned to Joe.

“Yes,” he said. “This is Willow. And, er, Spike,” he indicated the blond still standing at the bar, and Joe shook hands with both of them. “This is Joe Dawson. He owns this fine establishment.”

Joe laughed. “Fine establishment, huh? Nice to meet you both. So you’re the young lady taking classes with Adam?” he turned to Willow.

Willow blanched. “You, uh, know Dr. Pierson?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Joe nodded. “We’re all sitting together right over there,” he pointed. “Why don’t you two come join us? I’ll just have Mac get us two more chairs.” He had seen the way MacLeod studied the girl while Giles was on the stage, and his curiosity had been piqued. Now he was even more intrigued.

“Oh, I don’t...I mean, we just came to see...we don’t want to...,” Willow’s hands danced in the air as she babbled her way through an attempted refusal.

“Nonsense!” Joe waved away her concerns. There was no way he was letting her get away now. “Come on,” he inclined his head, and then turned away and walked back over to the table as if he expected them to follow him.

“Come,” Giles urged. “I’ll feel silly sitting over there and leaving you two here at the bar.”

Willow and Spike reluctantly followed Giles and Joe back to the table. By the time they got there, Duncan was already returning with two more chairs. He smiled at Willow, and she focused her attention on him, not wanting to look at Dr. Pierson.

“Move over, Adam,” Duncan said, and Methos moved his chair over. Duncan kicked his chair out of the way and set the two chairs he carried down between his and Giles’ chair. “Have a seat,” he held one of the chairs for Willow, and she nervously sat. “Hi,” he held his hand out to Spike, “I’m Mac.”

“Spike,” Spike replied, shaking Duncan’s hand warily.

“Sorry,” Willow said, reaching out anxiously to touch Spike’s leg, “I should have...”

“Not a problem,” Duncan squeezed her shoulder, then continued with the introductions, “You’ve both already met Joe, this is Maggie, and Adam. Maggie, this is Spike and Willow,” he said.

Spike shook their hands, uncomfortable in a crowd of strangers, and then sat down between Willow and Giles. Duncan resumed his seat between Willow and Methos as Willow leaned across the table and shook Maggie’s hand. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, sugar,” Maggie replied. “So, I hear you’re taking a class with Adam here. He seems to think he knows it all. Is that true?”

Methos rolled his eyes. With friends like these... Willow blushed and her eyes went wide, her mouth opened and closed with no sound escaping.

“Now, Maggie,” Joe came to her rescue. “Don’t put the girl on the spot, Adam still has to grade her papers. Besides, we already know he’s all talk. And talk, and talk...”

“Very funny, Joseph,” Methos curled his lips in an approximation of a smile, and then took another draw on the beer bottle he held in his hand like a lifeline. First the University, then the dojo, then the bar, and now they were all sharing a table! Mac was right, he had jinxed himself. The only good thing about it was that crowding everyone around the table brought him that much closer to MacLeod. Now their thighs were rubbing and he didn’t even have to make it look good.

~*~*~*~

After two hours, open-mic wound down and the hard-core crowd of regulars started chanting Joe’s name.

“Will you *shut up*!” Joe growled when Methos joined in.

“Come on, Joe! Just one song,” Methos pleaded.

Willow, Spike, and Giles were still sitting around the table with the others, and Willow couldn’t believe this side of Dr. Pierson. He was such a different person when he was relaxed...or drunk. He regaled them with a story about Mac and someone named Amanda which made Mac blush and Joe mutter something about writing that one down. Willow could tell that he truly cared for these people, but he hid it behind caustic comments and biting humor. He reminded her of Spike, when they’d first met him. Well, not in their junior year of high school, but when he came back to Sunnydale in her and Buffy’s freshman year at UC Sunnydale.

Joe was finally convinced to get up on stage after Methos disappeared into his office to get his guitar for him. He limped over to the stage on his prosthetics and sat on the stool, tuning his guitar. With a sly grin at Willow, he started the first song,”

> Oo wee baby I declare you sure look fine  
> Oo wee baby I declare you sure look fine  
> A girl like you has made many a man change his mind
> 
> Baby when you walk you know you shake like a willow tree...

Willow blushed beet red and it was Duncan’s turn to spit out a mouthful of beer. Luckily, the rag Methos had used earlier was still sitting in the middle of the table, and he grabbed it to dab at Duncan’s mouth before Duncan swatted his hand away and snatched the rag away from him. Maggie was laughing and clapping, and Giles was tapping his feet.

Willow wanted to crawl under the table. Spike was quiet; speaking when spoken to, but not initiating any conversation. Willow placed her fingers on the back of his hand as it rested on his leg. Spike glanced over at her, and turned his hand over, entwining their fingers. Willow started bobbing her head to the beat as they turned their attention back to Joe.

> Baby when you walk you know you shake like a willow tree  
> A girl like you would just love to make a fool of me
> 
> Let me love you baby....Let me love you baby  
> Let me love you little darlin'....Let me love you baby  
> Let me love you darlin' 'til your good love drives me crazy
> 
> Let me love you baby....Let me love you baby  
> Let me love you little darlin'....Let me love you baby  
> Let me love you darlin' 'til your good love drives me crazy.

Joe finished one song and started another, sipping from his glass of scotch between songs. After performing several songs, he called Giles up to the stage. Giles shook his head ‘no’, but it didn’t take much persuading to get him to join the other man. The two of them put their heads together, and then began to play.

By one o’clock, Willow was falling asleep, her head cradled on Spike’s shoulder. Giles and Joe put their guitars away, and Giles said his goodbyes to everyone. Spike helped Willow with her jacket, inclined his head to the group sitting around the table, and picked Willow up in his arms.

“Spike!” she protested weakly. Spike ignored her and Willow rested her head on his shoulder as he carried her out of the bar.

The bar was almost empty, but Duncan and Methos decided to have one more drink with Joe and Maggie before calling it a night. Suddenly, the harsh buzz of the presence of another Immortal filled their senses, and both men looked toward the door.

‘Yep,’ Methos thought, ‘bloody jinxed.’

Chapter Seven

Methos smiled when he saw the tall nordic blond who entered the bar. “Sven!” he cried as he stood up, and then went over to greet the other Immortal with a manly ‘clap on the back’ hug.

The other man rolled his eyes and smiled at Methos. “Why do you insist on calling me Sven?” he asked. “It has *never* been my name!”

“It suits you,” Methos grinned, and Duncan felt a stab of jealousy at the easy manner between the two. Methos never grinned at *him* like that. He tried to hide his envy in his glass as he took a sip of scotch.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend, Adam?” Maggie asked, and Duncan could have kissed her. Methos turned and looked at them as if he had forgotten they were even there, and Duncan felt a stab in his heart. Okay, this was just...ridiculous. So the man looked good in those faded jeans that hugged his ass and thighs just right. So Duncan had realized that the male forearm could be sexy. So he had eyes that could burn right through him.

It was just lust, right? What was the jealousy about? Methos could sleep with whomever he wanted to, probably had and would again. Duncan closed his eyes at the pain in his chest as he realized it would just probably never be him. Why did that hurt so much? He was a wonderful lover, if he did say so himself, but even he had been turned down in the past. Why did Methos’ rejection hurt so much?

Christ, and he hadn’t even been rejected yet, because he hadn’t asked. Not that he would...

“Uh, sorry, what?” Duncan asked, looking around the table. Methos had his hand on Duncan’s shoulder and the others were looking at him in concern.

“You alright?” the older Immortal asked worriedly.

“Yes, fine, just, uh, lost in thought. I’m sorry, you were saying?” Duncan fought to regain control of his emotions.

“Just making introductions,” Methos said, his face still a study in concentration as he stared at Duncan. “Jon Andersson, Duncan MacLeod.” While Duncan was lost in thought, the two men had exchanged their current monikers.

“Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” Jon breathed the name reverently with a warm smile and a big handshake, “I have heard so much about you.” Methos rolled his eyes.

Duncan turned a suspicious glare on Methos, who held his hands out in front of himself defensively, “Not from me!”

“No, Benj-, er, Adam, has not mentioned you. I can see why he would want to keep you all to himself,” Jon said, and Methos’ pale skin flushed pink.

“Jon,” he growled in warning.

“Sorry,” it was Jon’s turn to hold his hands up, but he didn’t wipe the grin off of his face. “No, I have heard of you from other Immortals. Speculation is that you are the man to beat to claim the prize.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Duncan asked. “To challenge me?” He should have known. Seacouver had been too quiet, especially since Methos’ return. He had only faced one challenge in the past four weeks. It looked like things were going to change.

“Oh, good heavens, no!” Jon said, and laughed. “No, I prefer not to fight if at all possible. I’m just here to see, uh, Adam. I have some news,” he turned to the other Immortal, his face giving nothing away.

“Ahh,” Methos replied. “Joe, can we use your office?” he asked the barkeep.

“Sure, Adam,” Joe replied, though he was dying to know what was going in here. Jon Andersson, aka Sven...yet another Immortal he’d never heard of. Methos and Jon disappeared down the hallway to Joe’s office. Duncan finished his glass of scotch, and poured himself another. Methos still hadn’t returned when he finished it, and Duncan excused himself to use the men’s room.

As he returned to the main room of the bar, he noticed that the door to Joe’s office was open, and the space empty. ‘Finally!’ he thought, picking up his pace. He strode purposefully into the bar area, and then froze. The room was empty except for the bartender wiping down the bar and Joe and Maggie, who were wiping down tables and stacking chairs on them so the floors could be cleaned.

“Where’s Adam?” Duncan asked. Joe looked up, his face a blank mask.

“I think they went out back,” he replied, and Duncan could feel the blood rushing from his head. He hurried over to the table and saw that Methos had taken his coat with him. He grabbed his own off of the hook on the wall and ran back down the hallway, pulling his unbalanced coat on as he went, unconcerned that Maggie and Joe were watching.

Duncan stepped into the alley that ran alongside the bar, his breaths were coming fast, as if he’d just run miles, his heart was beating a staccato in his chest, and his stomach was rolling. Methos and Jon stood in shadow, only faintly illuminated by the distant streetlights. It looked like they were talking, though both had their swords out. Jon raised his sword and tapped the flat of the blade against Methos’ shoulder, then pulled the sword back, and up. Jesus! What was Methos doing, just standing there?

“No!” Duncan cried, as he lurched away from the building. Both men turned to look at him quizzically. Duncan suddenly realized that he had misinterpreted the situation, that Jon hadn’t been going to take Methos’ head, but that didn’t stop his stomach from rebelling at the mere thought of it. Christ, he was going to be sick.

“Mac?” Methos called to him. Duncan held his hand up to forestall any conversation and turned away, stumbling towards the garbage cans at the side of the building. With one hand against the brick wall, he bent over and emptied the contents of his stomach. He could hear the deep tones of Methos’ whispering voice behind him, and then they were alone in the alley and the older Immortal was beside him.

Methos placed his hand on MacLeod’s shoulder and gripped him tight. “Mac, are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes, fine,” Duncan replied shortly, his worry making him angry, searching through his pockets for a handkerchief, or a napkin, anything to wipe his mouth off. Methos placed a cloth in his hands and Duncan gratefully wiped his sweating forehead, and then his lips and chin. God, he hated vomiting. He pulled out of Methos’ grasp and staggered back into the bar and down the dimly lit hallway to the bathroom.

He rinsed his mouth and his face, drank some water from his hand, and then stared into the mirror. He looked like hell. His face was white and his eyes red-rimmed. A tight band squeezed his chest, and tears filled his eyes as he pictured the sword on Methos’ shoulder, and the other Immortal pulling it back.

Methos stared at Mac’s back as he pushed through the door and returned to the bar. He was certain that MacLeod thought that he’d interrupted a fight, a fight that Methos was going to lose. Methos rolled his eyes. Like he’d just stand there and let another Immortal take his head. Really. What in hell was the other man thinking? He was the king of survival, after all.

He pulled the door open and followed Mac. He heard muffled sounds from the bathroom, so pushed the door open and peeked in. MacLeod was facing away from Methos, his hand braced against the wall, his head bowed.

“Mac?” Methos spoke his name softly, as he stepped into the room and let the door close behind him.

Duncan straightened up. “Leave me alone for a minute, Methos, will you?” he asked, his voice hoarse. There was silence behind him.

“No,” Methos said at last. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Duncan shook his head, trying to get himself under control. Hell, the last thing he wanted was Methos knowing he was crying over him. He’d never live it down.

“Mac,” Methos’ voice was gentle, as if speaking to a skittish horse. He took a step closer and placed his hand on Duncan’s shoulder.

“Methos, please...,” Duncan’s voice cracked.

“Mac, tell me what’s wrong. Please,” Methos pressed, suddenly very worried.

Duncan stood up to his full height, knocking Methos’ hand off of his shoulder, and turned on the older Immortal. His face was pale and wet with tears, eyes red and bloodshot. His lips curled angrily and he grabbed Methos by the lapels of his coat and swung him around, slamming his back into the wall.

“I *thought*,” he spit out, “that he was going to *kill* you. I *thought*... Jesus, Methos, I thought I was going to lose you,” Duncan felt the tears welling up again. He couldn’t remember being this emotional since he told his friends how much they meant to him after the battle with O’Roarke, or even before that, when Richie died...or when Tessa died.

He stared at Methos, and then roughly pulled the older Immortal to him, wrapping his arms around the other man’s back and burying his face in Methos’ neck. Methos stood frozen for a moment as he tried to absorb everything that had just happened. MacLeod had thought he was going to lose his head, which had led the man to puking up his supper. But more importantly, he was crying, and now holding Methos against him as if he’d never let go.

Methos shrugged internally. He could work with that. He raised his own arms to enfold the Highlander’s shaking frame. He was no longer crying, but his breathing was ragged and his body still seemed to be in shock. Methos ran his hands soothingly over the soft leather covering Mac’s back, as he whispered words of reassurance, his lips pressed against the other man’s silky hair.

Mac nodded as if he heard and understood Methos’ comforting words. Methos almost shivered when he felt the other man’s warm breath on his neck as he whispered, “Methos,” his voice breaking even over the one, short word. And then he felt the other man’s lips on his neck, something he’d only dreamt about. Methos’s fingers tightened in Mac’s coat and he moaned as liquid heat shot straight to his groin. He instinctively tilted his head back to give Mac more access to the tender skin.

Duncan heard and felt Methos’ response to him, and he opened his mouth and sucked on the other man’s neck. He needed to hold him, touch him, to prove that he was still there. The sound of the moan in his throat, the baring of his neck, and the feel of him hard against Duncan’s hip were more than enough to elicit a corresponding reaction in Duncan. He ran his hand up Methos’ back and into his hair, fingers gripping and pulling his head back further. He licked and sucked and bit the other man, marking him. Marking him as Duncan’s.

Duncan raised his head and looked down into hazel eyes turned nearly black with desire. Both men were breathing heavily. “Methos,” Duncan whispered, and waited.

“Duncan,” Methos finally responded, his voice husky. Duncan smiled. Methos didn’t normally call him Duncan. He lowered his head slowly, so slowly, towards Methos’ mouth. Methos stuck the tip of his tongue out to wet suddenly dry lips and Duncan swooped. He ran his tongue between Methos’ parted lips and stroked his tongue, then pulled away.

Methos’ lips followed Duncan’s, his hands going into the other man’s hair and pushing his head down as Methos pressed their lips together.

~*~*~*~

They were interrupted by the rattle of someone trying to open the door. Duncan pushed Methos back, and then looked at him in surprise. “You locked the door?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Methos shrugged. “Seems like an even better idea now,” he groaned as his fingers closed around Duncan’s throbbing shaft.

“Hey, somebody in there?” Joe’s voice was muffled through the door.

“Just us, Joe!” Duncan called back, as he reluctantly pushed Methos’ hand away and straightened his clothes.

“Everything alright, you two?” Joe sounded worried.

“Yeah, everything is fine, Joe. We’ll be right out!” Duncan called back.

“No we bloody well will not!” Methos hissed, grabbing for Duncan’s arm, but Duncan sidestepped him, a huge grin splitting his face. The jealousy and the gut-wrenching fear had evaporated, leaving him positively giddy. Duncan licked his lips as he backed towards the door, then let his gaze rake Methos’ body, stopping at the hard flesh that was pressing against the other man’s jeans.

“Let’s take this someplace else, Methos,” Duncan breathed as he reached behind him and unlocked the door. He turned, pulled the door open, and stepped into the hall.

“MacLeod!” Methos hissed, as he rearranged his own jeans and followed the Highlander.

“We were just locking up. Anything wrong?” Joe’s voice drifted back as he and Duncan walked down the hall to the main room of the bar.

“No,” he heard Mac reply. “Nothing wrong. We were just clearing the air.”

“That right?” Joe asked. “So you ever heard of Jon Andersson?”

“No, Joe, I haven’t,” Duncan replied. “You’ll have to ask Methos about him.”

“Methos,” Joe said expectantly, as the oldest Immortal joined them.

“Tomorrow Joe,” Methos said. “I’ll tell you all about it. Right now, I just want to go home and...hit the sack. Coming, Mac?”

“Yeah,” Duncan could almost feel himself blushing. It wasn’t what Methos was saying so much as the way he was saying it that made his body hum with anticipation. Or it could be the hard-on he was still sporting. “Joe,” he turned politely to the barkeep, “want us to wait and walk you and Maggie out?”

“Nah, you guys go on ahead,” Joe replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow for brunch. Don’t forget.”

“We won’t forget. ‘Night, Joe, Maggie,” Duncan said, as he pushed the front door open and stepped outside into the blessedly cool night air.

“Maggie, Joseph,” Methos drawled, and followed Mac out the door.

The two men walked silently down the street to the small parking lot. “I’ll drive,” Duncan finally spoke.

“I have my own...,” Methos began, and stopped at the look in Mac’s eyes as it burned through him.

“We’ll pick it up tomorrow,” Duncan practically growled and Methos thought he’d come right there. Christ, when had the Scot gotten so...possessive and...aggressive?

“Fine,” Methos readily agreed, and increased his speed as they walked toward Mac’s Thunderbird, “just make it quick. Sometimes you drive like an old lady, and I really need to get out of these jeans soon.”

Methos leaned against the car door and watched Duncan take the last two steps towards him. Duncan reached out to unlock the door, and let his body press against Methos’. Duncan couldn’t help himself. He lowered his head and kissed Methos. Methos groaned and grabbed Duncan’s hips, holding him tight as he thrust his own hips against the other man.

Duncan wrapped his arms around Methos, pressing his hands against Methos’ back, and the back of his head, holding him tight as he deepened the kiss. Methos slipped his hands beneath Duncan’s coat and sweater, and pressed them against the warm flesh of his lower back, and then moved his hands lower to cup Duncan’s ass as their hips moved together.

Duncan finally lifted his head and forced himself to step back, though Methos only reluctantly released him. “Get in the car, Methos,” he ordered, his voice rasping with unmet need. Methos watched Duncan as the other man stepped back and walked around the car, then turned and pulled the door open, crawling into the seat on rubbery legs.

Duncan held onto the car as he walked around it, then practically fell into the seat. He could not believe this was happening. In one night, his worst nightmare, and his happiest dream. Even as he licked his lips and tasted Methos, he could still see the blade at his neck, feel the fear that suffused is body at the thought of losing him.

Methos was silent for several minutes after Duncan pulled out of the parking lot, and then tried to make small talk. Duncan wasn’t responsive. He sighed. Brooding Scot! “Are you mad at me again?” he asked, resigned to discovering whatever it was that had Duncan so morose.

“I’m not mad at you, Methos,” Duncan replied unconvincingly.

“Right,” Methos rolled his eyes. “Second thoughts, then?” he asked.

“What?” Duncan turned to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” Methos indicated the two of them with his hand. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“No!” Duncan cried, and held up one hand. “God! I...I’m still shaking Methos! I was *scared*! And I’m relieved...so damned relieved. And I’m horny as hell. So ya’ll just have ta forgive me if I’m nae in the mood fer idle chit chat,” he finished, gripping the wheel tightly with both hands.

Methos just stared at him, and then he smiled. Duncan glanced over and caught the smile. “What are ye grinning at?” he demanded, his Scottish burr still very much in evidence.

Methos’ smile grew. “You,” he said, and then leaned back in the seat. He reached out and placed his hand on Duncan’s thigh, squeezing gently.

Duncan sighed and reached down, closing his fingers over Methos’.

Chapter Eight

Willow was curled up around Spike in her bed. They were both wearing a pair of sweats and a t-shirt to sleep in. “What did you think? About tonight, I mean.”

“Was alright,” he said, and Willow felt Spike shrug his shoulders.

“You hated it,” Willow said sadly. She’d really hoped that getting out, going to a bar, watching Giles sing, would make Spike, well, not happy exactly, but she’d hoped he’d have a good time. Forget the pain for a while.

“I didn’t hate it,” he assured her, “just felt...like I didn’t belong.”

“Oh, like I did?” Willow asked in disbelief. “At least Giles had music in common with that guy, Joe!”

“You know that professor and the other one,” Spike insisted.

“I told you, he hates me. And just because I know them, or am acquainted with them, I don’t have anything in common with them. I was so uncomfortable. I’m glad you were there, Spike. Thank you,” Willow pressed her forehead against Spike’s back.

“Welcome, luv,” Spike rolled over so he could take Willow in his arms. Maybe tonight she needed to be comforted.

They lay in silence for a moment, and then Willow asked softly, “Do you still think about Buffy?”

Spike had to think about that for a second. “Not so much,” he finally admitted. He spent more time worrying about Willow now than he did thinking about his ill-fated love with the Slayer. “You?”

“Sometimes, but not everyday, like I used to.” Silence again. “Do you think we’ll ever see them again?”

“Do you want to?” Silence.

“Sometimes.”

~*~*~*~

Duncan pulled his car into the alley beside the dojo. He glanced at Methos and squeezed his fingers before climbing out of the car. The remainder of the ride from Joe’s had been made in silence, and the silence lingered as both men walked up the outside staircase and Duncan let them into the loft.

“Drink?” he asked as he removed his coat and hung it up, and then held his hand out for Methos’.

“No,”Methos said, drawing his sword from the coat before handing it to Duncan to hang up beside his own. He looked around as if he didn’t know what to do with the sword, and then laid it upon the island in the kitchen.

Duncan placed his own sword beside it, and then moved to stand before Methos. He lay his hand on the other man’s biceps, his thumb rubbing the soft, worn material of the old, blue sweater Methos wore. “Methos,” he said.

“Oh, god,” Methos rolled his eyes. “Are we going to talk? Because if we’re going to talk, I might need that drink after all.”

“Methos,” Duncan chided. “Please, I just need...,” he closed his eyes and turned away. Damn it, this was harder than he expected. He’d come to a realization on the drive home. He realized that he loved Methos. Not the friendship, or brotherly, kind of love, but the kind that made your knees weak. And obviously made you do and say stupid things.

The man was exasperating, and aggravating, and irritating, and annoying, Duncan paused in his head, wondering if he’d covered them all. Oh, sarcastic. Mustn’t forget sarcastic. But he was also funny, and clever, and loyal, and kind, when he thought you wouldn’t notice. He wanted to take Methos to bed, to feel him around him, and in him, but not at the expense of their friendship.

Methos could sense MacLeod’s inner turmoil, like a physical thing weighing on his own flesh. He stepped up behind the other man and wrapped his arms around him, one around his chest, the other around his waist. “Do you want me, MacLeod?” he asked.

“Yes,” Duncan hissed, the feel of Methos against him too much in his raw emotional state.

“And I want you. So what is the problem?” Methos nuzzled Mac’s neck, and Duncan tilted his head.

“I don’t want, mmm, Methos, I can’t think when you, ahh!” Duncan cried out as Methos sucked and nibbled on his neck, his fingers brushing lightly over Duncan’s reviving erection. “Methos!” he turned around in the other man’s arms and pushed him back against the wall, kissing him hungrily, and then pulling back to speak.

“I don’t want either of us to be sorry in the morning, Methos,” he said.

“And you think you might be?” Methos asked, his voice deceptively calm.

“Yes, I think I might be, if I don’t tell you how I feel right now,” Duncan admitted, as fear twisted his guts.

“And what is that, Highlander?” Methos asked, and Duncan could see that he was already trying to distance himself.

“I thought,” Duncan began, “that what I felt for you was just...lust. Just...just physical. But tonight, when I saw Jon, and when I thought I was going to lose you, I...I realized that it was more, much more, than merely lust. I don’t just want your body, I want your mind, your heart, your soul. And I don’t just want you for tonight, Methos, I want you for always. I want to wake up to you in the morning, and...how pathetic does this sound?” he pushed himself away from the other man and paced the living room. He was ruining it. It was all coming out wrong. Methos hadn’t spoken yet.

Methos was in shock. He’d been surprised when he’d realized that Duncan wanted him, but for the other man to indicate that he wanted more than sex, one night of passion, was more than Methos had ever dared hope. There were many reasons for the noble Highland warrior to want to stay as far away from Methos as he could, his past as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, as Death, just one of them.

“My soul’s a bit tarnished,” he finally managed to get out, and Duncan swirled to look at him. “My mind, on the other hand, sharp as a tack,” Methos tapped his finger against his temple. “Perhaps one will balance out the other.”

“Or perhaps your sharp tongue will drive me to distraction and I’ll forget all about the times you’ve lied to me, shot me...”

“Saved your life!” Methos insisted. “And my tongue is honeyed, thank you very much!”

“I don’t remember,” Duncan took a step closer to the older Immortal, “let me see.” He lowered his head and kissed Methos until the other man clung to him for support, only lifting his head so they both could breathe.

“Aye,” he agreed, “honey, perhaps even ambrosia.”

“Duncan,” Methos hissed, and then buried his face in the younger man’s neck, licking and sucking the sensitive skin as he grabbed his hips and dragged him close.

“Ah, Methos,” Duncan reached between them and lifted Methos’ sweater up. Methos lifted his arms, but waited until the last possible moment to release the skin at Duncan’s neck, and then immediately reattached himself there.

Duncan ran his hands over the other man’s back, eagerly, greedily, mitigating his desire to touch him, to feel him, to know him. He brushed his fingers over Methos’ waist, and the other man jerked. “Ticklish?” Duncan asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m 5000 years...”

Duncan touched him again and Methos practically squealed. Duncan laughed and kept up his torment until the two of them were lying on the hard wood floor, breathless from laughter. “Ah, Methos,” Duncan moaned, and lowered his head to the other man’s chest, licking, and sucking, and biting at the flat dark discs, bringing the nipples to a hard bud, as his hand cupped Methos through his jeans, gently squeezing and kneading the hardening flesh.

“Duncan,” Methos groaned, as he bucked beneath Duncan’s touch. “Please, Duncan!”

Duncan unbuttoned and unzipped Methos’ jeans one-handed, and then slipped that hand inside to cup his heated, engorged erection as he continued to lave Methos’ nipples. He pulled away and knelt at Methos’ feet, untying his boots and removing them and his socks, and then grabbing his jeans at the waistband. Methos lifted his hips and Duncan tugged the jeans down and off.

Duncan lowered his head, kissing Methos’ stomach, nibbling at the tender skin between hip and thigh, and then brushing his lips across Methos’ straining shaft, before lowering his head further to lick and suck on the firm globes between his thighs.

Methos pounded on the floor and pressed his hips up, striving for more friction against his cock. “For the love of *god*, Duncan, I swear I will kill you myself if you don’t...ahhhh! Oh, god yes!” Methos’ threats turned into babbles of pleasure as Duncan rose up and took him into his mouth.

Methos might not be the first man Duncan had ever been with in over 400 years, but he was the first one he could ever remember loving this much. There were very few people in his life whom he had given his heart and soul to, Little Deer and Tessa among them. And now, Methos. The older Immortal hadn’t asked for it, and very probably didn’t want it, as entanglements made it difficult to disappear, but it was his, and Duncan wanted to show him how much he loved him.

Duncan sucked on the head, his tongue stroking the sensitive spot on the underside, just below the ridge, as his hand gently squeezed and pumped the length of him. Duncan lowered his head and took more of Methos into his mouth and alternated sucking him hard and fast, with slow and gentle, his hand pumping the base of Methos’ shaft.

Duncan let go of Methos and placed both hands on his hips, and then lowered his mouth over the other man’s penis until the head brushed the back of his throat. Duncan relaxed his throat, taking as much of his lover into his mouth as he could, and then he began to hum. Methos bucked his hips, and Duncan tightened his hold to keep the other man from choking him, and then he swallowed around him.

Methos was in heaven...or hell, depending on how you looked at it. The sight of Duncan kneeling between his legs, the feel of his hot, wet mouth covering him, sucking him, shot him straight to heaven. He was torn between wanting to come so bad it hurt, and never wanting it to end. Hell. And then it was no longer his choice. Methos buried his fingers in Duncan’s mane and roared his name as he exploded into the other man’s mouth.

When he was empty, his body relaxed against the floor and he could feel Duncan licking him clean. Duncan raised his head and Methos slipped out of his mouth. He reached out for the other man and pulled him to lay beside him. Methos kissed him, and tasted the bitter, salty taste of himself on Duncan’s tongue.

“Methos,” Duncan whispered the other man’s name as he brushed his fingers across his face.

“You’re still dressed,” Methos said, now that he could talk again, and immediately started working on the buttons of Duncan’s shirt. He pushed the shirt aside as he rolled Duncan to his back, and lowered his head to Duncan’s chest, licking and kissing every inch of the hard, muscled chest and stomach, until he reached the button of Duncan’s slacks.

Methos grabbed the waistband in his teeth and growled, and Duncan thought he might come right there. Methos let go of his pants and rubbed his face over Duncan’s erection through the material, then licked and sucked on him, gently closing his teeth over him.

“Duncan.” Methos unfastened Duncan’s pants and then slid back up his body, his hand slipping inside to gently stroke him. “Will you take me?” Methos asked breathlessly, looking at Duncan through his lashes.

Duncan was speechless. “Methos,” he placed his hand on the back of Methos’ head and pulled him to him for a kiss. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember,” Methos admitted softly, “and tonight, when you pushed me against the wall, because you were afraid of losing me, you were...aggressive, possessive, and I could feel how much you wanted me, desired me, and I want to feel that again, Duncan. I want you to finish it the way you started it. Please.”

Duncan just stared at him, and Methos was sure he must have said something wrong, and then Duncan spoke. “You want me to be the aggressor? Take you?”

“Yes,” Methos replied breathlessly.

“You want to feel me inside you?”

“Yes,” Methos groaned as he felt himself start to harden again.

“You want me to be possessive and claim you?” Duncan demanded.

“Christ, yes, Duncan!” Methos practically cried as his hips jerked against the man lying beneath him.

Duncan rolled them, and Methos gripped his shoulders. “I believe one of us has too many clothes on,” Duncan said.

“I believe I’ve already mentioned that,” Methos responded breathlessly.

Duncan stood and extended his hand. Methos took it and let Duncan pull him to his feet, and then wrapped his arms around Duncan and began to lead him to the bed. He pushed the shirt off of Duncan’s shoulders as they walked, pulled it off of his arms, and then pushed the pants down over his hips. Duncan toed his shoes off when they reached the bed and Methos finished undressing him.

Methos wrapped himself around Duncan, his hands exploring his back and buttocks, his lips and tongue exploring his neck and shoulders. He took a step back without relinquishing his hold on Duncan and crawled onto the bed, then pulled Duncan after him.

“Oh, wait,” Duncan pulled away and blushed. “We’re going to need something. I...I don’t have...I never...I never believed this would really happen,” he cupped Methos’ face and leaned in for a kiss. “Oh, I know!” he interrupted the kiss, turned and walked away from the bed.

Methos watched him go with wide-eyed surprise, and then smiled as he watched the muscles in Duncan’s backside. Soon the man returned with a bottle of olive oil and a big grin. “Found something,” he said with an eyebrow waggle.

“Good thing,” Methos rasped, as he slowly lay back on the bed and spread out. Duncan watched him assume the seductive pose and nearly stopped breathing. He set the oil on the bedside table and crawled onto the bed, lying beside Methos. He pulled the older Immortal into his arms and then kissed him, light, gentle kisses along his jaw and neck, and then deep, hungry kisses on his lips.

Methos moaned and gripped Duncan’s hip as they rubbed their erections together. “Duncan,” he finally pulled away, “please.”

Duncan reached for the oil and knelt between Methos parted legs. He poured the oil into his palm and Methos took the bottle from him, and poured some of the oil into his own palm before setting the bottle back on the bedside table. Methos drizzled the oil over Duncan’s swollen shaft and then closed his fist around him, stroking him, making sure he was well lubricated.

Duncan dipped his fingers into the oil, and then gently traced the puckered hole. He dipped his fingers into the oil again, and slipped one inside Methos, past the ring of muscle, moving it around to lubricate his walls. Once more into the oil, and this time two fingers breached him. Methos hissed at the intrusion, and Duncan stopped. “Don’t stop!” he cried.

Duncan rotated his fingers, and scissored them to stretch Methos, then pushed them in and searched until he found the gland. Methos’ cock jumped as Duncan rubbed the nub. “Duncan, I can’t, ah, much more, please!”

Duncan pulled his fingers out and lifted Methos’ hips. Methos groaned in anticipation, and pulled his bent legs forward, opening himself. Duncan placed his head against the puckered hole, and pressed in, breaching the ring of muscle. He let himself fall forward over Methos, bracing himself on his hands as he circled his hips, seating himself fully inside his lover.

He held still for a moment, and then began to move his hips, thrusting into Methos. Methos was so tight around him, Duncan didn’t know how long he’d be able to last. Just the thought of being buried inside Methos was enough to make him come. Duncan changed position until he hit the nub that made Methos’ cock twitch, and then he kept hitting it as he lowered his head and took possession of Methos’ mouth just as he possessed his body.

Methos grabbed Duncan’s shoulder and the back of his head, as if holding onto him would keep him grounded, but he was flying too high. His tongue battled Duncan’s in an attempt to distract him from Duncan’s cock in his ass, but every nudge of his prostate rekindled his awareness and filled his senses until he could think of nothing else.

He pulled away from Duncan and tipped his head back as his body tensed and he erupted, his warm seed shooting out to cover their stomachs and chests. Methos’ internal muscles clamped around Duncan as he came, and Duncan drove into him once, twice more, and then followed Methos over the edge, filling him with his release.

Chapter Nine

Duncan lowered himself over Methos and rested his head on the other man’s chest as they both recovered from their orgasms.

“Duncan,” Methos ground out.

“Yes?” Duncan tilted his head and raised his arm enough to gently brush his thumb over Methos’ lips.

“You weigh a ton!”

“Do not,” Duncan laid his head back down.

“Half a ton, at least!” Methos trailed his fingers down Duncan’s back, and then tickled his sides.

“Do not,” Duncan fought off Methos’ hands.

“Look, you big lug, you’re making it difficult for me to breathe,” Methos complained.

“Not like it’s gonna kill ya,” Duncan replied, as he pressed Methos’ hands into the bed.

“No, but it’s bloody uncomfortable,” he whined.

“Fine,” Duncan released his hands, carefully pulled out of Methos’ body, and rolled off him. He rose from the bed and walked into the bathroom without a backward glance. Methos watched him leave, his eyes narrowed, wondering if he’d insulted the other man. He’d wanted to wrap his arms around Duncan and never move from this spot, but he’d suddenly felt exposed, and raw.

It had been a very long time since he’d let down his defenses completely, and the thought of doing so now scared him. Since the day they met, he had let Duncan see more of him than anyone had in centuries, but he always held something back. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do that anymore, not if they were going to have the kind of relationship Duncan seemed to want.

Hell, the kind of relationship *he* wanted. He heard the shower turn on, and slipped off of the bed and into the bathroom. He pushed the shower curtain aside to see Duncan standing under the spray, his shoulders hunched, one hand against the wall to support himself.

“May I join you?” Methos asked softly, and Duncan straightened as if he’d been slapped.

“If you want,” he replied without looking at Methos, and busied himself with the soap. He was hurt and angry. Hurt that Methos had rejected him, angry because he had pushed it.

Methos stepped into the tub and pulled the curtain shut, then stepped up behind Duncan and wrapped his arms around the other man’s waist. “I’m sorry, Duncan,” he said.

“For what?” Duncan asked, stiffening slightly at Methos’ touch.

“For not giving you what you needed after you’d so kindly given me what I needed,” Methos said, resting his cheek against Duncan’s back. “I know what you want, for us, and I...I want it too, but I’m scared, Duncan. In centuries, no one has known me as you know me. And the thought of...of opening myself up even further is...very frightening.” Methos kissed Duncan’s back, and the tension left the other man’s body.

“I don’t want anything you’re not willing, or ready, to give, Methos,” Duncan said.

“Yes, you do,” Methos contradicted him. “You want everything, Duncan, and so do I, but it still scares me. Perhaps it scares me more because I do want it so much.”

“Methos,” Duncan turned in the older Immortal’s arms and wrapped his own arms around him. Methos tilted his head and found Duncan’s lips in a kiss that was needy and desperate. And they were both suddenly hard again. Methos pushed Duncan back against the tiled wall and pressed their groins together as he deepened the kiss, his hands gripping Duncan’s hips, then moving up his sides, and back down to cup his ass.

Methos soaped his hand, reached between them and grasped both of their erections in his hand, and soaped them up. He gripped Duncan’s hips with both hands and thrust against him, their cocks sliding against one another, each stimulating the other. He pressed his mouth against Duncan’s neck and sucked on the sensitive flesh as Duncan’s arms went around his back and they ground against each other.

“Duncan,” Methos breathed into Duncan’s ear. “Want you. Need you. Come for me,” he begged, and reached between them to pump Duncan’s sensitive flesh.

“Methos,” Duncan’s cry was strangled as his body tensed, his cock swelling and pulsing as his fluid coated their stomachs and Methos’ hand. At the sound and feel of Duncan’s orgasm, his own climax rocked his body and Methos bit down on the other man’s neck.

“Duncan,” he whispered, letting his body relax against the younger Immortal, his head resting on Duncan’s shoulder as he caught his breath.

“Methos,” Duncan responded softly, placing kisses on the side of Methos’ face. “I love you.”

“I know, Duncan,” Methos smiled. “I know. I love you, too.”

When they were able to move, they finished showering and dried off, then moved their swords near the bed and climbed in. Methos lay on his back, and Duncan curled up next to him, his head on Methos’ shoulder, his hand resting on Methos’ chest. Methos ran his fingers through Duncan’s long, dark hair, spreading it out over his shoulder.

“Methos,” Duncan broke the silence. “Who is Jon Andersson?”

“Jon?” Methos repeated, surprised. “Why do you...?” he remembered that Mac had said something earlier, something about when he saw Jon.

“Were you and he...?” Duncan couldn’t finish the question, so left it hanging.

“Duncan,” Methos managed to sound surprised, and annoyed, and pleased all at once, “are you jealous?”

“Of course not,” Duncan lied. “Well, maybe a little.” Methos laughed. “It’s not funny,” Duncan nearly whined.

“No, you’re... Well, actually, it is, a bit,” Methos said, as he turned onto his side and pressed his body flush against Duncan’s. “No, Jon and I were never lovers,” he said, looking into Duncan’s eyes. “What made you think we might have been?” he asked.

“I just... You seemed so,” Duncan paused, searching for the word he wanted, “easy with him. You...,” he rolled his eyes in disgust at himself. “You hugged him.”

Duncan could see Methos’ lips twitch in the soft light from the street. “Go ahead, laugh. I’m being ridiculous,” Duncan rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

“No, you’re not,” Methos rolled with him until he was curled up against him, their earlier positions reversed. “It’s,” it was Methos’ turn to search for the right word, “simple, being easy with someone you like, but who doesn’t mean the world to you.”

“And...me?” Duncan asked, swallowing hard.

“You mean the world to me,” Methos whispered.

“Me too. I mean, you too,” Duncan said, and smiled. “You mean the world to me, too, Methos.”

Methos sighed deeply, and fell asleep. Duncan stayed awake a while longer, savoring the feel of Methos in his arms.

~*~*~*~

Duncan woke long after the sun had risen to Methos’ mouth surrounding his morning erection. He cried out as his body arched into Methos’ mouth, deciding that this was the only way to wake up. As soon as Methos realized Duncan was awake, he relaxed his throat and took him deep. He swallowed around him, and Duncan cried out as his body tensed and pressure built in his scrotum, until he erupted in Methos’ mouth.

Methos swallowed until Duncan was spent, and then licked him clean. He lifted his head and smiled at Duncan. “What are you planning, old man?” Duncan asked breathlessly.

“Moi?” Methos asked innocently as he kissed Duncan. When he sat back up, he held the bottle of olive oil. He stared into Duncan’s chocolate brown eyes as he climbed between Duncan’s legs and uncapped the bottle. “I don’t know what you mean, Duncan.”

Duncan swallowed hard as Methos tipped the bottle, spilling oil over his flaccid flesh. He felt the tickle as it ran down between his thighs, over his testicles, his perineum, and his puckered hole. Methos set the bottle aside and cupped Duncan’s balls, coating his hand with the oil. He gently gripped the limp penis and stroked it.

“I hope you don’t plan on doing anything with that,” Duncan said. Methos didn’t respond verbally, just bent Duncan’s legs at the knees and spread his thighs. He cupped Duncan’s balls one more time, and pressed his thumb against his perineum, and then he was rubbing one finger around his puckered hold. Duncan groaned as Methos pressed his finger in, slowly past the tight muscle, until his entire finger was inside Duncan.

Methos reached for Duncan’s prostate gland, and when he found it, Duncan’s back arched off of the bed, and his cock twitched. Without giving Duncan time to recover, Methos pulled his finger out and pressed two in. He rotated them to stretch Duncan, and reached again for the nub at his center. Duncan was panting as his cock responded to Methos’ touch inside his body. “You were saying?” Methos asked as he withdrew his fingers and wrapped them around his own engorged penis, coating it liberally with the oil.

He pressed his head against Duncan, and then leaned forward so that he was looking directly into Duncan’s eyes, one hand resting on the bed beside Duncan’s head. “I need to be inside you,” he said, his voice deep and dark with desire. “I want to possess you, as you possess me,” he placed his hand on Duncan’s hip and pressed forward, pushing past the ring of muscle. “I want to be so far inside you I can’t tell where I end and you begin.”

“Yes!” Duncan cried, grabbing Methos’ hips and pulling him forward, and then crying out at the swift entry.

“Duncan?” Methos asked worriedly.

“Don’t stop, Methos,” Duncan begged. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” Methos promised, and pulled out, only to thrust back in again. He changed the angle of his hips until he found Duncan’s pleasure spot, and then he drove into him, hitting the core of him with each plunge of his hips.

Duncan felt his need building, and reached out to touch himself. Methos grabbed his hand and forced it away. He took Duncan’s other hand, and pressed them both to the bed. Methos lifted his body so that they could both watch Duncan’s swollen penis. The act of watching himself, added to the fact that Methos was watching him and intended to make him come without touching him, sent Duncan to the edge.

“Come for me, Duncan,” Methos turned hazel eyes on brown, and Duncan fell, losing himself in them, and came. Methos watched Duncan’s face as he shot his semen over his stomach and chest, and then followed him over the edge, emptying himself into Duncan.

~*~*~*~

After a quick shower and a cup of coffee, Duncan and Methos met Joe and Maggie at the Library Bistro and Bookstore Bar at eleven o’clock for brunch. The decor of the Library Bistro reminded Duncan of a 1940's or 1950's style restaurant. There were high-backed booths, copper and bronze checkerboard tiles, oiled oak floors, and ten foot high bookcases. Methos’ favorite part of the Bistro was the Bookstore Bar, where he could drink a local microbrew or a single malt scotch, and peruse the walls for books to add to his collection.

Joe and Maggie were already seated with cups of coffee in front of them, when Duncan and Methos arrived. The two Immortals greeted their friends, removed their coats and hung them on the hooks on the outside of the booth, and then sat. Duncan slid in first, and Methos followed him. They sat no closer than usual, but Methos adopted his customary sprawl and let his legs fall apart so that his thigh brushed Duncan’s.

Duncan said nothing, but responded by pressing his leg into Methos’. As soon as they had ordered, Joe began his interrogation of Methos regarding Jon Andersson. Methos explained that he had first met Jon around the turn of the century, twentieth, when he was using the name Anders Karlsson. “Just after that thing with Butch and Sundance,” Methos concluded. “And that’s all I’m saying, Joe. The man doesn’t have a Watcher, he doesn’t hunt, and I’m not putting him in a position where other Immortals find out who and where he is.”

“Alright, alright,” Joe held up a hand. “Can you at least tell me what he was doing here last night?”

Methos thought for a minute. “He knows I’ve been looking for Methos,” Methos explained. “He lets me know when he hears a rumor that might interest me.” Maggie had been dating Joe for over a year now, and she knew that he was a Watcher. She also knew that ‘Adam’ and Duncan were Immortals, but she didn’t know that ‘Adam’ was Methos, and Methos wanted to keep it that way. Jon brought Methos rumors of where he’d been spotted, and Methos tried to stay away from those places.

“What was that I saw out in the alley?” Duncan asked. Methos blushed.

“It was nothing,” he tried to brush it off.

“It wasn’t nothing, Adam!” Duncan hissed. “I thought he was going to take your *head*!”

“What?” Joe exclaimed.

“You misunderstood, MacLeod,” Methos began, but saw the cloud of worry in Duncan’s eyes. “It’s ridiculous and I shudder to tell you,” he admitted, taking a sip of coffee, wishing it were a good beer, or even a glass of Mac’s best scotch.

“Please,” Duncan said softly.

“It’s just a, a thing. To pledge that we will never be the one to take the other’s head. We got drunk one night and did this idiotic ceremony and made the promise,” Methos explained.

“You’ve never pledged not to take my head,” Duncan said, hurt.

“No, MacLeod, I’ve offered you mine,” Methos spoke softly, looking into Duncan’s eyes, hoping the other Immortal understood what he meant. He’d never, ever, make Duncan promise not to take his head, because one day, he might have to. The Highlander *would* be the last one, and Methos would make certain of it.

“Adam, I saw your truck in the parking lot last night when we left the bar,” Joe said to change the subject. “Anything wrong?” Both men were taken by surprise.

“Wouldn’t start,” Methos replied, at the same time Duncan said, “Too much to drink.”

“Too much to drink,” Methos corrected himself, as Duncan said, “Wouldn’t start.”

“I’d had too much to drink, *and* the Jeep wouldn’t start, which is rather fortuitous, don’t you think?” Methos explained.

Maggie lowered her head to hide the grin that split her face.

“What are you grinning about?” Methos demanded righteously.

“Nothing,” Maggie denied. “Just thinking.”

“And just what were you thinking?” he asked.

“That it’s about time,” Maggie grinned openly at Duncan and Methos, who both blushed furiously.

“Oh, crap!” Joe said. “Tell me she does *not* have this right!”

“Have what right?” Duncan asked, as innocently as he could.

“The two of you! Tell me you took Methos to your place and he slept on the couch,” Joe said. Duncan looked at Methos.

“Yes, the couch. Well...”

“I can’t report this!” Joe huffed.

“Nor should you,” Methos growled, but Joe ignored him.

“They’ll never believe me! And if they do, female Watchers will start killing themselves all over Paris!” Joe insisted.

“Oh, stop!” Maggie playfully slapped Joe’s arm. “It’s not that big a deal, surely.”

“But it is,” Joe said. “He’s a legend in the Watcher organization!”

“I can’t possibly...,” Duncan began.

“Not you! Adam!” Joe pointed at Methos. “Watcher turned Immortal, local boy makes good, and all that rot,” he explained.

“Wait, he’s a bigger legend than me?” Duncan asked.

Chapter Ten

The next two weeks were fairly uneventful. Willow attended classes at the University, met with the coven twice a week, had martial arts lessons with Mac three times a week, and went on patrol with Spike a couple of times. The only thing she thought was odd was that she frequently ran into Dr. Pierson at the dojo. Sometimes he was just arriving, or had just finished sparring with Mac, and other times he showed up from the stairs or elevator, which Willow had learned led to Mac’s living quarters.

Dr. Pierson still gave her a wide berth when they met, whether it was at the University, the dojo, or Joe’s bar, where Giles had started to spend time with Joe, but she was starting to feel less self-conscious around him. Maybe it was listening to the way Mac, Joe, and Maggie teased him relentlessly on the odd occasion when they were all together. Made him seem a little less intimidating.

On this particular Monday night, Spike was bored out of his skull. He’d been whining and pouting ever since Willow got home from classes, and so she asked him if he wanted to go to the dojo with her. “You can’t watch me!” she’d blushed, the thought of him seeing her fumble through the forms nearly mortifying. “But, you know, there’s other stuff you can do.” And so Spike drove her to the dojo.

“Hi,” Willow greeted Matt when they arrived at the dojo. “This is my friend Spike, Spike, this is Matt. He runs the dojo for Mac. He’s going to wait for me, is that okay?” she asked Matt.

“Sure!” Matt said, shaking hands with Spike. “Nice to meet you, Spike. Adam called down and said Mac was running a little late, so why don’t you go back and wait on the bench. I’m sure he’ll be down soon.”

“Okay, thanks, Matt.” Willow led Spike back to the bench and they both sat. Willow removed her shoes and socks while they were waiting, and then sat on the mat and started doing some light stretching.

A couple of minutes later, Mac appeared out of the stairwell. “Hi, Willow, Spike,” he greeted them as he approached.

“Hi, Mac,” Willow glanced over her shoulder with a small smile as she continued to stretch. Spike just nodded his head. “Is it alright if Spike waits for me?” she asked.

“Of course,” Mac replied. “If you get bored of watching...”

“No!” Willow’s head shot up. “He-he can’t watch!” she blushed.

“You do fine, Willow,” Mac assured her with an understanding grin. “If you’re familiar with any of the equipment we have here,” he turned to Spike and indicated the nautilus system, free weights, stationary bikes, and treadmills throughout the dojo with a sweep of his hand, “you’re welcome to use them while you’re waiting. If you’re not, Matt can give you a hand,” Mac pointed toward the blond who had just handed a towel to one of the dojo’s female members and was explaining how to use the next machine to her.

“Thanks,” Spike said, but didn’t move from his spot on the bench.

“Spi-i-ike,” Willow pouted, and he let the corner of his lips turn up. He pushed himself off of the bench with a deep sigh.

“I’m not watchin’,” he rolled his eyes, and stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. He looked around the dojo, and then wandered through it, looking at each piece of machinery and watching the members who were using them. He caught sight of some weapons on the wall in the back, and ambled over to them. After carefully studying the different swords and staves, he took his hands out of his pocket and took down a staff.

Spike hefted the staff in his hands, and then slipped his jacket off, tossing it on the bench. He lay the staff on the bench and picked one booted foot up to untie the laces, and then the other. He stepped out of the boots and onto the mat with the staff in hand. He did some slow stretching exercises with the staff to get used to the feel of it in his hands, and then began to do some more complicated moves.

The wood in his hands and the physical exercise felt good, and he allowed himself to get lost in the sensation. Until he was brought up short by another staff blocking his thrust. Spike looked up into hazel eyes set in a grinning face, and allowed a smirk to cross his own lips.

“You’re good,” Methos said.

“I know,” Spike replied.

Methos’ grin broadened. “Want to spar?”

Spike’s eyes narrowed warily. He didn’t know this man, or his moves, and he had the soddin’ chip to worry about. He’d sparred with Buffy, but that was because he didn’t have to worry about the chip going off with her. He also knew that if there was no intent to harm, the chip wouldn’t fire.

“A friendly spar?” Spike asked. Methos nodded his head. “Alright,” Spike agreed.

They began to spar. Their moves started out slow, as they got a feel for each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and then built up in speed and intensity, until the staves were a blur, and the ‘thud’ of them connecting, with wood or flesh, filled the dojo.

Willow found herself slightly distracted by Spike’s presence, especially after she caught sight of him and Adam sparring out of the corner of her eye. By the time she was done with her forms and able to do a cool-down stretch, she was paying more attention to Spike than she was Mac.

“I’m sorry,” Willow apologized for her inattention, as she placed one foot on the bench and stretched, her eyes never leaving Spike. “I haven’t seen him do that in, well, only months,” she gave a little laugh, “but it feels like longer.”

“That’s alright,” Mac said, equally distracted by the sight of his lover. Methos was wearing a pair of Mac’s sweats - thank god they had a drawstring or they’d be around his ankles - and a tank top. The muscles in his arms bunched as he gripped the staff and whirled it around towards Spike.

Spike wasn’t in bad shape, either, Mac noted. He hadn’t looked that interested in the weights, and he wondered how the other man stayed fit. Methos was sweating, and both men were grinning. Suddenly, the fight was over. Methos missed a block and Spike swung the staff at him, then suddenly pulled it back and threw it across the floor, his face a study in anger, confusion, and fear.

He turned his back on Methos and fell to his knees. “Fuck!” he muttered to himself, covering his head with both hands.

“Spike!” Willow ran over and sank to the floor beside him. “What happened? Are you alright?” she asked, as she placed her hands over his.

“What happened?” Duncan asked.

“‘M fine, Red,” Spike mumbled.

“I don’t know,” Methos replied.

“Spike?” she whispered. “Please, tell me. Let me help.”

“I wanted to fight him. Really fight him. I was afraid I’d hurt him,” Spike admitted, his voice pitched soft and low so only Willow could hear him. “Afraid I wouldn’t be able to hold back. Needed the violence. I’ll never be anything but a monster,” he moaned, as if he were in pain. “Stupid soul - what good is it, anyway?”

“Is he alright?” Duncan asked Willow worriedly. “Spike, are you...”

“He’ll be fine,” Willow answered. “Just a, um, cramp,” she lied, not meeting his eyes.

“Do you need...”

“All better now,” Willow gave a strained smile as she stood and helped Spike to his feet.

“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” Spike said, with a quick glance at Methos. “Cramp. Gone now. You done?” he asked Willow.

“Yeah, I’m done,” Willow nodded. “Home?”

“Home,” Spike agreed.

“Thanks, Mac,” Willow said as she hustled Spike over to the bench so she could put on her socks and sneakers. “I’ll see you on Thursday. Dr. Pierson,” she nodded her head in goodbye, and then she and Spike left.

Duncan and Methos stood together on the mat and stared after them. “Well, that was strange,” Methos broke the silence.

~*~*~*~

“Did you want to kill him?” Willow asked. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed; Spike was in her desk chair.

“No,” Spike shook his head.

“You just wanted a good fight,” she suggested.

“I guess,” Spike replied.

“Were you afraid the chip would go off?” Willow asked.

“Maybe,” Spike answered. “Could you imagine trying to explain that?”

“Well,” Willow shrugged, “headache might’ve been easier to get away with than ‘cramp’.”

Spike grinned. “Yeah, that was pretty lame.”

“Hey!” Willow threw a pillow at him. “I didn’t see you coming up with anything better!”

“Thanks,” he said softly.

“You don’t need to thank me, Spike. Friends help each other.”

“Are we friends?” he asked, glancing at her, and then lowering his eyes to stare at his bare feet.

“I think so. Don’t you?”

“Yeah, I - I do. So, um, you going to bed?” he changed the subject.

“No, I’m going to draft my Psych paper that’s due next week. You?” she asked.

“No,” he shook his head, standing. “I’ll just go see what’s on the telly.”

“Okay,” Willow agreed. “Want me to let you know when I’m done? With my paper.”

“Yeah,” Spike said.

~and that’s all she wrote, folks~

**Author's Note:**

> I found this incomplete fic on my hard drive when I was double checking to make sure that I'd uploaded all of my HL fic at this archive; instead of leaving over 28,000 words of fic to get lost in the ether, I decided to post it here unfinished. I hope that whoever reads this fic enjoys it, despite the fact that it will never be completed. Also, it has been posted unedited.


End file.
